


Vamplock

by EinahSirro



Series: Vamplocked [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst and Humor, Blood Drinking, M/M, Plotty, Slavery, Some BDSM, Stockholm Syndrome, Thrall John, Vampire Sherlock, dub-con, unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-27
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-01-02 18:52:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 60,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1060321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EinahSirro/pseuds/EinahSirro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is very good at not attracting vampires' attention. Until he isn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Vamplock/夜访夏洛克](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7386451) by [charleness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/charleness/pseuds/charleness)



Everyone knew the rules. You registered with the bloodbank. You gave way in queues and averted your eyes. You kept a respectful tongue in your head, or at least a quiet one. Most vampires were bored by humans anyway. Just stay very, very quiet. No confrontations. Let the vampire take the cabbie you just hailed (there’ll be another along soon). Step out of the doorway, let the vampire go in first. Don’t stare into their eyes, it sets them off just like a Doberman. Just keep your head down and be quiet.

 

John Watson was very good at being very quiet. Inside, he was a little tense, and it showed in the set of his shoulders and the grim line of his mouth, but he went about his business at the clinic quietly.

 

The vampires had been in control for 2 years now.

 

And here was the thing; in most ways it was no worse than when humans had been in control. In some ways, better. No more war. Soldiers home from Afghanistan and Iraq. Oh, some of them came home only to disappear into some vampire’s clutches (they did love soldiers, for some reason), but it didn’t mean they were dead. Just… not free. Not free to come home to their loved ones after all. Not free to leave the house, even. Not free in any way. But not dead. Not bleeding out in the sand, not lying with bandaged stumps in the hospital.

 

And the economy was… pretty stable. Not excellent, but not on a roller coaster. Crime was a touch less noticeable. Of course, the fact that nothing a vampire did to a human was illegal might have had something to do with the statistics, but it was still a fact that humans seemed a bit less likely to prey on each other when they were busy looking over their shoulders for a pair of icy eyes looming behind them in the alley.

 

Homelessness as a problem completely vanished. Well, the homeless completely vanished. They vanished, the morgues filled up with bloodless, unidentified bodies, and then that wave had subsided and there you go. No more homelessness. Problem solved.

 

But what was most disturbing to John Watson was the effect vampires had on humanity. On the human personality. They were a magnetic lot, when they chose to be. They could make willing slaves out of nearly anyone. Often they simply killed their prey, feeding on them in an alley or darkened corner until the human turned snow-white and slipped to the floor. Then they strode away and the police came to take the corpse, label the death as “heart failure” (hearts do fail when there’s no blood to pump) and that was the end of it.

 

But after that first three months of upheaval, it became evident to everyone that a more domestic situation was preferable. After all, even vampires enjoyed a stable England, where the trains run on time, and the theaters are full and bright, and the garbage is picked up regularly, and the banks and stores are manned by humans rather than machines.

 

It was better with the bloodbank system. For the modern, urban vampire, it was rather like striking a balance between restaurants, take-out, and home-cooked meals. Bloodbanks were the restaurants. In fact, it was not long before enterprising humans (humans!) set up elegant bloodbars with a pleasant ambience… you could order a drink at the bar or you could go upstairs and have a live donor… you know. Very civilized.

 

Take-out was when a vampire snatched someone unwary, and maybe killed them, and maybe didn’t, depending on the mood. That certainly reinforced the curfews better than any police force did, the knowledge that Dark was Take-Out time.

 

But then there was the pleasure of a home-cooked meal, and that was having a human all of your very own, waiting for you at home. A well-trained one would keep the place clean, too, so there was a certain advantage to having one. 

 

And it was easy, because the vampire bite could be very pleasurable, if the vampire wanted it to be. Humans were remarkably simple to enslave once the practice was well-established. You simply scooped one up, took them home, sank your fangs in, pumped them full of endorphins, and frankly you’d better lay them down first if you didn’t want to have to hold their limp, panting bodies up the whole time. It was like picking ripe fruit.

 

Probably why there wasn’t much of a rebellion. Just as women had allowed men to reign over them from time immemorial, seduced by the promise of love (even when it turned out to be far less often given than offered) so, too, humans could be counted on to fall in love with vampires, and become hopeless thralls.

 

When you got bored with your thrall, you could finish them off, or trade them, or let them go if you were very, very kind-hearted (and could stand them stalking you, wanting to come back. Really, it was easier to kill them.)

 

In the end, for the average human, life in this new vein (no pun intended) went on. No more war, no more recession, no more homelessness, very little crime… and if you become a thrall, well… now you didn’t have to worry about retirement, because you probably wouldn’t live long enough. Most vampires were sentimental enough to put their pets to sleep humanely enough (funny use of that word, no?) by simply taking One Last Drink (a big one)—usually with no warning. After all, do you tell your dog you’re taking him to the vet for The Big Sleep? No, you pet him and reassure him that it’s just another rabies shot. Then he goes to sleep and you’re done, see? So…. There you had it, thought John Watson cynically, as he finished inventory of the supply closet at the clinic one Friday night.

 

It became, really, just a question of avoiding the danger. Like Afghanistan: don’t get shot. With vampires, it was just: don’t attract their attention. Don’t be out after dark, don’t piss one of them off, don’t look them in the eye, don’t be too appealing … and John wasn’t terribly worried. Tense, but not too worried. After all, if you’re nearly 40, and small and compact, just a quiet little man with steady eyes but a sad face, really, you’ll be fine. They won’t really notice you. You’ll be fine. It’s fine.

 

It’s all fine as long as none of them touches me, John amended mentally. Because he hated them. He hated what they’d done to people he actually knew, not the ones who’d disappeared outright, no. That was like the casualties of war. It was more what they did to the POWs (as he mentally referred to thralls.) Their personalities were just wiped out. Intellect, talents, individuality, will, all gone. 

 

One of the toughest soldiers he’d known in Afghanistan, fellow named Moran… he’d been one of those snatched up early on. He’d been a dark, bitter fellow with a murderously dry sense of humor and decisive wit; it was instantly wiped out. Last time John saw him, he looked like a zombie, in the thrall of some skinny, well-dressed little Fang with wild black eyes. Fucker. 

 

John had seen them exit a sleek black car and enter some Savile Row tailor, Moran trailing the Fang with his head down and his face wiped utterly clear of that knowing, assessing cast that had always been his trademark. John’s hands had turned icy, knowing in that moment that whatever happened, he’d rather die than end like that.

 

Because it was like going to visit your grandpa in the retirement home, and he was dazed with senility and wearing a diaper and hooked up to machines, and he didn’t recognize you at all. He looked up at you with childlike eyes and asked you to take him home, take him out of this place, and where was his wife, and where was everyone he’d loved? You looked at that and you thought “I don’t want to go out this way.” Better to die with your boots on.

 

John was a soldier as well as a doctor. He wasn’t afraid to die. But he was afraid to go gently into the night. He didn’t want to go hooked up to machines. He didn’t want to go senile and confused. He didn’t want to go ridden with cancer and addled with pain medication that wiped out your strength more than the pain, and he didn’t want to go the blank-faced thrall of some smirking Fang. So in the last three years, he’d added some provisions to the mental Living Will he kept in his head: He would survive as well as he could for as long as he could. There were only three reasons to take the easy way out: on-set of dementia, incurable disease, and vampires.

 

And his mind was pretty well made up on that. When your mind is made up, you don’t tend to revisit it over and over. You don’t tend to talk it over with yourself. Your mind does sort of a type, save, print, and store procedure, and then that decision is done with, and put away somewhere accessible but not disturbing. Like going to the store. Unless you were a terribly conflicted person, you didn’t mutter mentally to yourself about stopping at the store on the way home. You merely pictured the store, pictured what you needed (Friday night: cream for coffee, loaf of bread, bit of ham) and then you went, your mind quiet.

 

That was where John was, both mentally and physically, when the tall, thin vampire in the long black coat saw him for the first time. Darkness was falling. The vampire was in a bloodbar by a picture window staking out a suspicious cabbie parked across the boulevard when John Watson walked by on his way to Tesco, having finished his inventory and left the clinic late Friday afternoon. 

 

John didn’t do anything wrong. He didn’t bump into any vampires, or look one in the eye, or break curfew, or draw attention to himself in any way. His face was blank, his mind was clear, his purpose was simple… but he passed in front of the world’s only Consulting Vampire at the wrong time, and the wrong place, and that was simply the damndest bad luck there ever was.  
And isn’t that always the way?

 

***

 

Sherlock was bored, but that was nothing new. He sat at the bloodbar and staked out the cabbie, who was idling across the street, and let the flow of human thought ebb and swirl around him. It was a source of constant irritation to Sherlock that he could read human’s minds but not other vampires. Of all the useless gifts to have. Humans never thought anything new or interesting. Well, most vampires didn’t either, but they at least had the responsibility of running the world, so it was rather like comparing adults to children. They were all boring, but children were even more so, and most humans were essentially children. Their minds kept up a humming mantra of _I want this_ and _I have to do that_ and _why didn’t he call_ and _does she know I’m cheating._

 

A vampire might at least be counted on to muse _I should enthrall the CEO of this bank so I can make him transfer funds to my faction more efficiently and we can take over Parliament._ That was at least a shade more interesting than _That waitress is hot._

 

But only marginally. Sherlock occasionally tuned out their thoughts long enough to deduce from their physical appearance (shirt clean but rumpled, smells freshly laundered but not ironed, his wife is going blind or feeble) before turning his “hearing” back on to check _got to get Mabel’s prescription filled tonight, should have done it last night, hope the queue’s not too bad_ (confirmation. Next.) Just to keep in practice.

 

Other times he simply read each person as they passed, absently, like a man running through the radio dial in the car, picking up a snippet of music or lyrics in passing, creating a montage of human babble that was numbingly consistent.  
Like now, for instance. Humans were passing the window at a rate of about one every 2-3 seconds. A young woman walked by _my feet are killing me but these shoes look so good_ and then an older man _damn she’s got some legs like to have them wrapped around me_ and an elderly couple _oh so slippery when it rains can’t fall you break a hip and that’s it_ and a teenage goth who could have been either male or female _fuck that bastard he’s not my real dad fuck him_ and a small, quiet looking man (silence)…

Sherlock focused on him. Silence was unusual. Sturdy, compact, eyes down, hair short dark blond (military) khaki pants, well-made, clean, but sensible shoes (job standing up a lot but highly educated – Professor? Doctor?)

 

The man passed out of sight of the window and Sherlock got up and went to the door to look after him. He didn’t have anything in mind other than confirming his deduction. The cabbie was still idling and really, he could pick up on him any time. Walking through the door of the bloodbar, the black-clad vampire stepped out onto the street and looked after the small, bland looking man who was calmly, swiftly walking away. Still silence. Not a blank, empty-headed silence (contrary to popular belief, empty headed people created quite a bit of noise, usually song lyrics.) It was more of a deliberately silent focus that… almost had a scent to it. Metallic. Like a gun.

 

Oh, this was a tiny, tiny bit more amusing than the usual hum, Sherlock thought, and fell into step behind the man. 

 

John paused at the corner and glanced around as he waited for the light to change, unaware that he had suddenly acquired a tall, dark shadow with a mop of curly hair on top of it. John’s mind was busy registering and cataloging the people around him in his usual manner: a sort of automatic risk-assessment mode that was the combined result of his military experience and his calling as a doctor. What here could cause a situation, and what could he do if a situation occurred? He didn’t think it in words because it was a familiar habit. It was more of a mental snapshot, followed by a lightning-fast series of visuals that could occur. Then the images were sorted by response scenarios.

 

For instance, this was a busy, downtown intersection. The two most likely situations that would call for a response were 1) some fool steps out in front of a car or 2) some fool loses control of his car and drives onto the sidewalk. 

_Impact trauma-assess-stabilize-treat-for-shock-call999- enlist-bystander-aid—_

 

Really, it was just habit. Not even words. Just a series of visual referents fluttering by fast as a deck of cards being shuffled, and not because John Watson was a genius (although he was pretty bright. Med school? Hello?) But because he was focused, and efficient, and that was simply what he did. All the time. Assess, react, reassess, compensate, assess again… really there wasn’t anything special about him. Nothing to attract attention. 

The light turned and the pedestrians stepped obediently into the cross walk. No one got run over, and all went along as it should as John made his way to Tesco to get creamer, bread, and ham on a Friday night.

 

Behind him, a tall, dark vampire followed him, puzzling over the series of images that had riffled through the quiet man’s thoughts, accompanied by the smell of disinfectant (definitely doctor) and then vanished as the intersection was left behind and John walked by an alley without a glance, but with another riffle of images that seemed to include a scream and a scuffle, and then silence again.

 

Interesting. But no words. Sherlock kept following. What else was there to do? He drew a little closer to the smaller man and followed him into the store.

 

With his customary efficiency, John took up a hand-basket, hit exactly the aisles he needed, holding a snapshot of the desired item in his head until he found its match, and headed for the checkout. The whole thing took less than 4 minutes. The whole time his mind was silent.

 

Sherlock knew the exact moment the quiet man became aware of his presence. He saw himself register as a black shade (threat) and felt the sharpening of that metallic smell wafting off the other man, but there was no outward physical sign. John did not even turn his head to catch a corner-eye glimpse. He simply went through the self-service line, paid with a card, and let a riffle of images flutter through his mind that had an unmistakable element of violence to them. Then he calmly exited the store, and with a wolfish grin, Sherlock followed, no longer making an effort to be subtle. This was fun.

 

John continued down the sidewalk and turned down a street that led away from the shops, into a more residential -- though rather downtrodden -- area. Sherlock followed, sniffing appreciatively as the metallic smell emanating from the other man’s thoughts grew sharper and more pronounced. Another riffle of violence fluttered in his mind, but interestingly, the smaller man did absolutely nothing outwardly. There was a waiting quality to the silence. He didn’t turn. He didn’t speed up or slow down. He didn’t evade, or provoke. He didn’t react in any visible way. There was no scent of fear, although he could definitely sense that the man was focused on him completely, and had registered him as a likely threat. And that the likelihood was increasing the longer he was followed.

 

Sherlock could sense that assess-assess-assess quality somehow, even though there were no words. No coherent thoughts. Just smells and … some indescribable hint of physical action or energy being planned. He could almost feel the other man’s muscles twitching in a certain repetitive, synchronized fashion that suggested he was mentally rehearsing a series of moves.

 

Sherlock moved closer, allowing his footsteps to be heard now. No one could mistake the threat he suggested at this point. They were alone. It was just dark. The black shadow had followed the quiet man to the store, through the store, into the neighborhood, and was now only a few steps away.

 

The smaller man stopped abruptly, sighed, and turned to face his stalker. The minute he looked directly at Sherlock, the quality of his thoughts changed so abruptly that the vampire was almost staggered. 

 

John had gotten close enough to his flat that he knew he had to make a decision. Clearly some weirdo was following him. Mugger, probably. Did he want the mugger to know where he lived? Not really. Best to get this over with now, then, he decided, and turned to face the man behind him. That’s when everything changed.

 

John saw the white, bony face, the deep, staring eyes, the long, flaring coat, and knew instantly that his luck had suddenly run out. Vampire. Vampire. He had attracted the attention of a vampire. 

 

It was all over. Life was over. End time.

 

Sherlock had stopped when John turned, and they stared at each other in silence. Sherlock watched as the other man’s eyes flicked over his face and stilled. Suddenly the metallic smell vanished and was replaced by the smell of wet earth. Like mud, like… someone was digging in mud. Interesting.

 

He waited.

 

There was nothing else. The smaller man simply stood, expressionless, the grocery bag hanging limp, forgotten in his hand, and the smell of wet earth intensified as he stared at Sherlock. Still no words, no actions. Rather large eyes. Dark but not brown. Steady. Piercing, even. He didn’t even seem to be breathing.

 

He was human, wasn’t he? Sherlock was actually unsure for a split second, but decided that yes, he must be. The stare-down continued. Now Sherlock smelled flowers mingling with the wet earth smell coming from his quarry. Truly unusual. How delicious, to have an unusual experience after all these years. He almost hated to move, for fear of destroying this remarkable moment.

 

Experimentally, the vampire took a step forward. No reaction from the man at all. In fact, the other man’s eyes seemed to have focused where Sherlock had been a moment ago and did not adjust or follow as he drew closer. Was he going to lash out? Sherlock checked mentally… no, the physical twitching had stopped. Everything had stopped. Ah, the frozen quality of cornered prey, yes? No? Yes? Hm… sort of. Still, yes, terrified, no. Really, this was a puzzle.

 

Sherlock stepped nearer until he and the other man were close the way friends having a private conversation might be close. The other man continued to stare over Sherlock’s shoulder at where he’d been when they first made eye-contact. The wet earth smell faded and now there was no smell at all. But a sound seemed to emerge from the smaller man, sort of a vibration or hum. It sounded like the ringing in one’s ears that comes at random times, but… no… not so sharp. Just an echo.

 

“What’s your name?” the vampire asked, and heard the other man’s mind answer: _John Watson. The late John Watson._

 

But physically, the other man said only “Does it matter?”

 

Sherlock hovered for a minute, and finally words began to bloom in the other man’s (John’s) thoughts: _Take Out. It’s dark. Quiet here. Should be quick._

 

The humming sound became more pronounced.

 

Then John tilted his head back, still ignoring Sherlock, and he heard the thoughts: _I can see the sky. That’s good. I wanted to be able to see the sky. I’d hoped it would be daylight but maybe this is better. That blue is just dust and reflection. The night sky is the real sky. Stars. The last thing I see. That’s good._

 

Then the words stopped again, and the wet earth smell returned, stronger than ever. Ah, death. That was it. John’s mind had gone from self-defense to accepting death in a split second. Well, that was unique, Sherlock had to admit. No fear, no fuss, just… waiting. Experimentally, the taller man leaned down and let his nose get close enough to his prey’s neck to take a swift whiff. Clean, no previous marks. Warm. Very nice. Still there was a humming sound in Sherlock’s head that must be coming from John, though nothing human ears could hear.

 

“Hurry up, you son of a bitch.” John breathed stonily, and Sherlock smiled. Quite the tough little customer, wasn’t he? It seemed a shame to—Sherlock drew back, took several backward steps, and then, after a long, evaluating gaze, turned with a whirl of his coat and walked away. His mental antenna, however, was completely tuned to the man he was walking away from.

 

He’d expected to sense a wash of relief, but it didn’t come. There was only a lessening of that vibration, the fading of the earthy smell, and silence. By the time Sherlock reached the corner, he could smell the metallic alertness return, faintly. He turned to see that John was still watching him. 

 

Sherlock stepped around the corner, out of sight. He waited about 20 seconds then peeked around the corner to see that John had finally turned away and was walking again, head down, bag swinging at his side. Sherlock watched until he saw where John turned in, and registered the location and address of his flat. 

 

 _I’m going to see you again, John Watson,_ he thought.

 

***

 

It was Saturday afternoon. Sherlock was on his couch, hands clasped beneath his chin, staring at the ceiling. The cabbie was in custody. The paperwork was being handled by someone down at Scotland Yard who had long since learned to make up whatever was necessary to explain the arrest, because Sherlock had long since concluded that no human needed to know he could read their minds. Now he was in his decidedly messy flat musing on the age-old question: should I take a thrall?

 

On one hand, it would be incredibly irritating to have some human’s mumbling thoughts echoing through his flat like an announcer at some endless sporting event on. and. on. night. and. day.

 

On the other hand, fresh blood.

 

Generally, it was no contest. Fresh blood was not worth that irritating whine.

 

But since last night, well. Apparently some humans did not have that running stream of mindless thought that drove any self-respecting mind-reading vampire up the wall. (He was probably the only one, actually. He hadn’t seen any evidence that other vampires could read minds. Not that he spent much time with other vampires. Anyway.)

 

In other words, he’d all but decided that John Watson was going to be his thrall, and was only pretending to give the appearance of having thought it over to satisfy the side of him that sneered relentlessly from the corner of his mind that thralls were a stupid, messy waste of time, and a weakness that was truly beneath him.

 

Also, it might do to find out more about the human before snatching him up and chaining him to the bed upstairs. _Do I even still have restraints?_ He wondered, and went up to the dusty spare bedroom to check in the dresser. Oh yes, here they were. Good. Fine. Back to the couch. (sigh) And you have to feed thralls or they die on you, so that means using the refrigerator for something other than morgue donations. Really, it was like getting a pet. Are you responsible enough? Will you walk it regularly? Take it to the vet? Train it? Be patient?

 

Sherlock flicked through the possibilities and decided he would observe the fellow for a day or two more. After that, if John Watson continued to intrigue him, then… yes, why not? It’s not like there was any law against it. He got up from the couch and pulled on his coat. Why wait? Sunlight, contrary to popular mythology, didn’t bother vampires much at all. It just wasn’t very flattering.

 

John, meanwhile, was in his flat having lunch (coffee and ham sandwich) on his day off. He hadn’t left the flat since the incident the night before. He’d been planning to walk around the park nearby (much more pleasant since that homeless problem had been sucked away), but he had a feeling that last night wasn’t really over, merely suspended. He wasn’t stupid. Vampires don’t stalk you for 20 minutes, sniff you, smile, then walk away.

 

He’d caught the attention of a vampire somehow, and the thing wasn’t in the mood for Take Out. That was a bad sign. _(That vampire was beautiful--)_ John stopped chewing. Where had that thought come from?

 

Oh yes, that’s right. They could charm you. It might have already begun.

 

Shit.

 

John forced himself to swallow the rest of his sandwich. Then he rose from the table, wiped his mouth, and went to his bedroom. He dug out his rucksack, packed everything that mattered, and shrugged on his coat. Might be a good time to visit his sister on the other side of town. This side of town had just gotten too hot for him.

 

***

 

Sherlock sat in the parked cab and watched as John Watson exited his flat, carrying his rucksack. Well, wasn’t that convenient? He was already packed and ready to move in!

 

Well, no, clearly he was running away, but what was the difference in practical terms? Sherlock smirked to himself, watching as the other man drew closer, casting alert glances around. Again, no words. But he could see his own image being held in the other man’s mind, a visual referent to check all surrounding features against. If he saw a match, that would mean danger.

 

Clearly the coat and hair featured the most strongly, although Sherlock was mildly surprised to see that the visual image in John’s head included a very accurate and detailed map of his own facial features. He hadn’t thought the human had really looked directly at him after that first, assessing glance, but clearly his own physiognomy had been imprinted and retained with startling clarity: the wide-set, pale eyes, the slightly retrousse nose, the distinctive cut of his mouth hovered in John’s brain like a black and white photograph.

 

Rather flattering, actually. John’s mind held an accurate visual image of Sherlock, and a mental map to the subway station, but again, no words, no restless thoughts, just that sense of purpose and a clear freedom-like scent. Like… the woods. 

 

Really, this man was a treasure chest of odd associations. Sherlock decided suddenly that he’d thought it over quite enough. The answer was Yes.

 

Sherlock waited until John was near the cab, and then flung open the door and stepped out, blocking his path.

 

“Ah, there you are. Good. Get in.” Not really what he’d intended to say, but Sherlock, despite what many humans and vampires had thought over the years, did have a sense of humor. It was just… rather singular.

 

John halted so abruptly it was as if he’d walked into an invisible wall. Their eyes locked and again, Sherlock was rocked by the violent shift in the quality of John’s thoughts. That fresh scent vanished and it was almost as if a wooden door had slammed down on a small compartment with him inside. The scent of John’s thoughts turned stuffy and stale and unpleasant. The humming returned like the droning of bees. He froze and stared at Sherlock.

 

People around them continued on their way, eyes averted. It was clear what was playing out on the sidewalk by the boulevard. A tall, dark vampire in a long black coat was taking a small, plainly dressed man, and putting him in a cab. Firmly. By the arm. The smaller man’s face was pinched and closed, his eyes staring at nothing, his knuckles white around his rucksack. 

 

Nothing to see here, move along.

 

Sherlock followed John into the cab, and then the cab pulled away, and people nearby took deep breaths and continued their Saturday afternoon shopping.

 

In silence the cab maneuvered the London streets, leaving behind the rather pedestrian neighborhood John lived in (used to live in) and entered the more upscale venues that vampires usually inhabited. Sherlock sat on one side of the back seat and John sat on the other. John’s rucksack was between them, as was the smell, once again, of damp earth. And that faint, vibrating hum.

 

Sherlock waited to hear thoughts, but John stared resolutely at the back of the seat in front of him and simply emanated the smell of cemeteries. Complete with flowers. That was amusing, did he really think Sherlock was going to pay for a cab ride just to kill him?

 

Finally, the vampire spoke. He actually meant to be reassuring when he said,  
“If I were planning to kill you, I’d have done it in your own neighborhood.”

 

Pause. Finally words flickered into John’s head that Sherlock could read: _God what a beautiful voice. These bastards are so fucking deadly._

 

Then silence again. Sherlock blinked a few times, and then became conscious of his own breathing. John stared unresponsively ahead. Nothing on his face would suggest either that he was afraid, or that he thought Sherlock’s voice was… beautiful. Hm.

 

Bizarre. 

 

Oh, this was fun. This was… FUN! Sherlock had to suppress the urge to lean forward and snarl at the cabbie to drive faster. _Oh, come, let us get to Baker street,_ he thought.

 

Mrs. Hudson, the human woman who owned the flat, was in her kitchen when she heard Sherlock bellow “MRS HUDSON!!” at the front door.

 

She came out into the hallway, wiping her hands on a towel. Sherlock was just coming in, dragging a short, blond man behind him. The blond man was stone-faced and carrying a rucksack. Sherlock looked like a child who had just found a puppy.

 

“Mrs. Hudson, this is John. He’s going to be staying with me for a while,” Sherlock said. Simultaneously, he heard the thoughts of both John and Mrs. Hudson. Mrs. Hudson was thinking: _Oh, finally, he’s got himself a nice companion that he can…well… oh, I hope he doesn’t kill him._

 

John’s mind said in measured tones of unmistakable hostility: _That’s what you think._

 

Sherlock grinned and guided John up the stairs, Mrs. Hudson looking up nervously as they went. Then she went back to her kitchen, because there was nothing you could do to control vampires, and what was true of most vampires was doubly true of Sherlock. So the best thing to do was finish the dishes. She winced as the door slammed upstairs, meaning Sherlock was now alone in his flat with his new… um… friend?

 

***

 

Inside the door, Sherlock doffed his coat and hung it on the peg by the door. Then he leaned against the door and merely watched John look around.

 

And John looked around. He dropped the rucksack at his side as if he never intended to worry about it again. Sherlock watched the eyes (dark blue, it turns out) flick around the flat, and listened for his thoughts. After a moment, he heard dimly the word _mess._ Then, with startling clarity, he heard the word _Glass._

 

John strode across the room without a word, and punched his fist through the window overlooking the street. Then he smashed his wrists down on the broken glass and Sherlock sensed a sharp bite of pain before John doubled over and fell to the floor.

 

What the Hell… Sherlock moved swiftly to John’s side and knelt, grabbing the other man’s wrists as the blood pumped out of him and all over the rug. Without a thought he brought one wrist to his mouth and licked the wound closed, and then grabbed the other and did the same (oh, that blood tasted wonderful.) Then he sat on John, straddling his hips, and pinning those wrists to the floor.

 

 _Okay, that was somewhat less fun,_ he thought, bemused.

 

John lay under him, twisting his head left and right as he looked at his own wrists. The marks were still there, but they had closed. John tipped his head back and looked accusingly at the broken window as if it had failed him. Sherlock heard his thoughts: _Fuck. Fuck! … Poison._

 

John panted for a moment, staring up at Sherlock. “I’m going to throw up,” he finally stated, and Sherlock stared down at him for a moment. Clearly, the man was lying, but the vampire was just curious enough to release him and rise gracefully to his feet. John staggered up, still looking down at his wrists, and then glanced around. “Loo?” He asked, and Sherlock pointed him in the right direction.

 

He followed a few steps behind as John went to the restroom and closed the door behind him. Sherlock listened, amused, from the other side of the door as John opened the cabinets quickly. He could hear the thoughts as clearly as spoken words: _Poison. Poison. Poison? Poison?? ….. nothing? Fuck….. GLASS!_

 

Shit. Sherlock kicked open the door just as John smashed the top of his head against the mirror over the sink. This time, Sherlock managed to wrestle him out and away from the shards before any damage was done.

 

It was only a moment before Sherlock had John pinned to the couch. Vampire strength was no joke, and John realized it quickly and subsided, panting beneath him. He lay quiescent for a moment, his short hair mussed, his eyes wide and wild, his thoughts whirling through the flat like a Tasmanian Devil. Sherlock listened, fascinated, as John’s mind did an inventory of all the available windows, mirrors, and even lightbulbs, and then a quick list of other dangerous elements: _Glass. Glass. Poison (kitchen) Always. Second floor. Not high enough. Gas stove? Gas? Fire? Knives. (hate knives)…_

 

“John,” he interrupted, still pinning the other man down. John was very, very warm, and it was a pleasant feeling, sitting on top of him this way. The clean smell of his body, the sharp smell of his panic, the earthy smell of that grave he was already digging for himself…

 

“John!” Finally John’s thoughts centered on the face of the vampire leaning over him, and Sherlock heard: _Jesus what beautiful eyes. This one will destroy you._

 

Then it was quiet. Sherlock smiled.

 

“John, I’m not going to kill you,” he murmured.

 

 _That’s what you think,_ he heard. John stared silently up at him. Sherlock eased up again and gave John a reassuring caress over the mussed blond hair. John held still and met Sherlock’s gaze as the taller man leaned back a bit and listened. The thoughts started up again: _This is how they do it. They pull you in. And this one. Beautiful, beautiful. Lips. Eyes. Hands. Then you change inside and die an inch at a time._

 

Sherlock let John pull gingerly out from under him as the door to the flat opened and Mrs. Hudson appeared with a broom and dustpan. Obviously she’d heard the smashing.

 

“Oh, Sherlock,” she said reproachfully, and went to sweep up the broken glass by the window. Sherlock kept his eyes on John as he commented, “Bathroom, too, Mrs. Hudson,” and smiled as she sighed.

 

John glanced toward the open door, and Sherlock said, “No,” warningly, as if John were a dog. Carefully, John averted his eyes and took a few experimental steps toward the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson looked up from her sweeping.

 

“Oh, tea’s by the sink, dear,” she called, and John turned away and moved into the kitchen. Sherlock heard: _Tea. Right. Tea. Tea. Water. Kettle. POISON!_

 

Sherlock bounded into the kitchen to find John lunging under the sink after a bottle of drain cleanser. He grappled the stuff out of the other man’s hands and stared at him.

 

“John. I’m not going to hurt you.”

 

The silent staredown resumed. Mrs. Hudson finished removing the broken glass, and Sherlock handed the drain cleanser to her to take away as well. Puzzled, she took it and left, obviously mentally shrugging.

 

The two men were alone again. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, trying to read John’s blank expression.

 

Finally he said, “All I want--“

 

John interrupted immediately, “I know what you want.”

 

Sherlock sighed, “If I wanted to kill you, I could do it right here with one swipe of my hand—“

 

Suddenly he heard John’s mind say: _PROVOKE!_

 

“Oh, could you?” John asked coolly, staring him down. “I’m glad to hear you’re good at something besides running around in that ridiculous coat trying desperately to get the attention of strange men. You’re the most pathetic vampire I’ve ever seen. You live like a pig and you’re obviously incapable of –“

 

Sherlock blinked and swallowed, admittedly a bit surprised (not in a good way.) Then John stopped speaking and he heard the thoughts again: _Damn. Look at him. He’s actually hurt. I can’t-- Fuck. I am so fucked… KNIFE! Heart. Fast._

 

Sherlock intercepted him when he realized that John meant to plunge the knife into his own heart, not Sherlock’s. They wrestled for a moment, until the knife clattered to the floor, and then Sherlock decided they both needed a time out. Without another word, he wrapped his arms around John, pinning his elbows to his ribs, and hauled him up the stairs to the dusty spare bedroom.

 

At the sight of it, John went into a true panic, kicking and thrashing, his mind shouting _NO NO NO NO_ until Sherlock finally had him restrained by the wrists and ankles on the now-twisted bedspread. When he was at last immobilized he went limp, and Sherlock actually went rather limp himself with relief.

 

Perhaps this had not been such a good idea. Thralls weren’t supposed to be either suicidal or feral.

 

They both panted quietly for a bit, Sherlock sitting on the bed, and John tied down, staring back at him, his mind once again emitting that vibrating hum that Sherlock finally recognized as John’s version of dread. It wasn’t like fear, which was sharp and quavery. It was a steady drone that seemed to be bracing itself for something inevitable.

 

Suddenly it stopped. Sherlock looked down at John, who was staring past him at the ceiling. Sherlock heard: _I lose. I’ve lost. I’m lost. Damn._

And then one more time, very quiet: _Damn._

__Then it was silent. Sherlock reached out one white hand and carefully undid the buttons of John’s rumpled shirt, and heard John swallow once, but that was all. His blue eyes remained fixed on the ceiling. Sherlock spread the shirt open, revealing the other man’s chest, and the scarring of a messy bullet wound on one shoulder. Sherlock traced his fingers over it gently._ _

__

__Fascinated, the vampire leaned down and settled himself on top of John, intimately close, legs entwined, tipping his head this way and that as he examined the wound with his eyes and fingers._ _

After a moment he caught the scent of John’s mood. Faintly like incense. He was relaxing, though his face still revealed nothing. Sherlock nuzzled into John’s neck and heard: _And here we go. The end of me. The end of the person I was._

_Ah,_ Sherlock thought. _He’s not afraid of dying. He’s afraid of changing._ He paused a moment, and considered trying to reassure the man, but then decided that the best way to show him there was nothing to fear was to get on with it. He nuzzled deeper, and then licked the sensitive skin of John’s neck right where he intended to bite, his saliva filled with the mild analgesic vampires used for lovers, not victims. 

He hovered for a moment, savoring the anticipation. Then he sank his fangs in. He felt John’s limbs stiffen in protest (they usually did) and his back arched for a moment, but he was unexpectedly docile, and sank back weakly. Sherlock could feel the rise and fall of his chest as he pulled in a deep breath and let it out with a tremble.

_The sweetest blood ever,_ Sherlock thought dizzily, sucking and mouthing the warm flesh between his lips as the man under him shifted slightly and then moaned softly. 

_Untie me,_ he heard in his mind, and without a thought, he broke away for a moment and fumbled to release the catch on first one wrist, and then the other. Without another word, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and pulled him tightly against himself. 

Almost fainting with delight, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John in return, and in that warm embrace, sank back into his neck and drank. He could hear John’s heart pounding. Then he could hear the words: _Oh God. Oh God, so this is what happens. This is Heaven. Oh my God. Oh he’s beautiful. Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Take it all._

John’s hand came up to press Sherlock’s head tighter into his neck, and in response, he ground his body against the other man. He dug in deeper and they both gave a groan, clenching each other tightly. 

Finally Sherlock broke away, albeit unwillingly. They were both breathing hard, and Sherlock had to clear his head for a moment before he remembered to lick the wound closed. Then he rolled off John and rested on his back for moment, enjoying the incense-like smell of John’s mood. Utter dazed contentment, and … ah, yes, a warm, loud buzzing that suggested sexual arousal. Yes, he could work with that, Sherlock mused.

After a period of breathing silence, John carefully sat up and reached down to his ankles, feeling around the edges of the restraints until he found the release catches. Sherlock lay and let John free himself. Then the smaller man eased himself from the bed, glancing around at the vampire lying on the blankets in the last light of the fading afternoon. 

He looked from Sherlock to the door, his face as resolute and unfriendly as it ever was. 

"John,” said Sherlock in his most velvety voice. “Come back.” He opened his arms, staring at the other man with those silvery eyes, parting those beautifully sculpted lips.

_Damn,_ he heard John’s thought. _Look at him. This is how they do it._ And it was funny, because the glare John directed at him was militant, cold, absolutely unwelcoming. But Sherlock could hear the thoughts hidden behind it, and he sighed softly, “I’ve been so alone, John.” 

He could see John take a quick mental inventory of the flat. Messy, dusty, disheveled, truly the lair of a man who lives alone and has little contact with others. Suddenly he saw it through John’s eyes and realized that though he was acting to play on the other man’s sympathy, the words were true. He was alone.

"Please?” Sherlock added, arms still open. _Fuck,_ said John’s mind. _I am so fucked._ He hesitated for a moment, reliving the feeling of having those arms around him, that face buried in his neck, that dizzy, floating feeling, that body pressed against his. And think how strong, how fast... there's no way you could escape anyway. _Well, fuck._ Slowly, he crawled back into Sherlock’s arms and wrapped himself around his vampire. 

_I knew this one would destroy me,_ he thought. And Sherlock smiled to himself as he rolled over on top of his human. _Yes,_ he thought, _but slowly._


	2. Vamplock Ch 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's in Sherlock's clutches now. There's really no way to escape a genius, mind-reading vampire, is there?

Sherlock rolled over on top of his human, who was now lying in his arms, at least somewhat willing (not tied up, right?) His shirt was open, his eyes fixed on the ceiling as if reading something written up there. The vampire put his lips close to John’s ear and whispered “Jo-ohn…”

The man beneath him gave a shiver and ran his hands up Sherlock’s back tentatively.

“Yes, you can do that. You can touch me,” Sherlock breathed into the pink ear beneath his lips. Then he ground his hips a bit against the warm body pinned under his, and smiled a wicked smile as John’s eyes fell closed for a moment and then blinked frantically open again, as if he was about to undergo some frightening medical procedure and meant to keep a very close eye on every implement the doctor reached for.

“I’m yours,” Sherlock whispered into the warm, breathing creature wrapped in his arms. “And you’re mine. We’re going to be together.” Then he licked John’s ear and heard a faint gasp in the throat attached to that ear.

John’s mind was still amazingly silent though.

And isn’t it always that the one thing we think we want, we just cannot stand it once we get it? Had anyone asked Sherlock why he hadn’t taken a thrall in decades, he would have said “They think constantly, and they don’t shut up.”

Now he had a silent thrall beneath him, and it was… starting to bother him. And let’s face it, John was a thrall from the minute—no, not from the minute Sherlock bit him. Actually, no. Actually, from that moment in the kitchen when he’d decided to provoke this vampire into breaking his neck and had spat out a string of insults that evaporated the minute those silvery eyes had registered a blink of hurt.

How could John hurt this graceful thing with the baby-ish mouth and delicate wrists and tragic eyes (who could break you in half by accident if he weren’t careful, good God, let’s pity a steamroller, shall we?)

But there you have it. John the soldier, who mentally evaluated how to kill every man who walked past him on the sidewalk (not that he wanted to, only just in case, you understand) John who had shot people, John who was ready to take down anyone he saw if necessary… John had a heart as easily sliced into as a fresh mushroom. And Sherlock was a razor blade.

If ever a man could be made into a thrall by a wounded pair of eyes and a long white neck, it was John.

He hid it pretty well, though.

So Sherlock, lying on top of him, stared into that set, resolute face, and knew only that:

1) John was so terrified of being a thrall he was likely to jump off a bridge if Sherlock didn’t play his cards carefully, however

2) He was also so terribly polite that if you said “Please,” he’d hand over a kidney.

3) Sherlock couldn’t tell what someone was thinking unless it was put into words, because Sherlock lived in a world of numbers and words.

4) But unlike most people, John didn’t think in words very often. He thought in smells, pictures, colors, and tastes. The inside of his head was a dreamscape that only he could navigate. Sherlock had found the one human whose thoughts – mundane though they might be – were at least temporarily shrouded in mystery. And blessedly silent.

And now it turned out silence wasn’t so wonderful after all, and Sherlock immediately resolved (without being aware that he’d resolved) to unravel the very thing about John that had intrigued him in the first place.

Meanwhile, it might be nice to—Sherlock slid his legs between John’s and slowly spread them apart, burying his lips in the side of John’s neck he hadn’t ravished yet.

_Oh, God, he’s going to rape me. This is going to hurt._ John’s mind blared suddenly.

Sherlock let one of his fangs nick open a cut on the warm neck and felt John twitch as he sucked it for a moment, and then licked it closed.

He’d forgotten how much human males worried about that sort of thing. Sherlock delicately pushed the shirt off John’s shoulders and kissed a path down to just above his collarbone, where he bit again, quite gently, and sucked a few drops away. John jerked with every new sensation, his hands sliding to Sherlock’s arms as if he was not sure whether to cling for safety or attempt to stop the movements of the vampire lying on top of him. Like he could stop a vampire. Might as well jump in front of a train—

John jerked again and the breath hissed in between his teeth as a pair of fangs dug in on either side of his nipple and then that pink mouth started suckling at it firmly. The sensations went right down between his legs, and John’s head would have fallen right off his neck if the pillow hadn’t caught it first.

Sherlock glanced up at him and brought his thigh up to press against the raging hard-on trapped in John’s pants.

_Oh, fuck it. Alright, go ahead,_ John’s brain said clearly. Sherlock licked the latest trickling wound closed and raised his head.

“John,” he said, and the dark blue eyes looked down toward him in a daze. “John, if I make love to you, are you going to have some sort of mental breakdown and try to dive off the roof later?” Sherlock asked.

_Yes, but I’ll definitely let you finish with me first,_ “No,” said John.

Oh, he lies, Sherlock smiled to himself. Alright. He placed a hand between John’s legs, drawing a sharp whimper from above.

“Then I’ll just take a little more blood and leave you be for a bit,” he promised. Then, to John’s horror, Sherlock swiftly undid John’s belt, opened his pants, drew out the flushed and straining cock, and poised those fangs right over it.

Now most men will agree that _fangs_ and _cock_ are not natural allies, and John was just letting out a cry that, for once, matched exactly what his mind was saying. Then those fangs grazed the head of his penis, blood beaded near the tip, that pink mouth clamped down and sank deeply onto it, and Sherlock started sucking.

John’s eyes widened, his bones melted, his entire body starfished on the bed, and in matter of moments, that captured cock was the only hard thing left about him. Sherlock pulled and sucked relentlessly, drawing out a thin stream of smoky, delicious blood that was only cut off when the body beneath him drew tight, tight, tight, and hard, and finally John came with a set of convulsions that… well, it was a good thing vampires are strong, because Sherlock had to pin him to the bed and hold him still while he sucked the last bit of everything out of him. John’s eyes rolled back into his head as Sherlock finally looked up. Oh, he’d passed out.

Well, that was good, maybe. Perhaps he didn’t sleep well last night. Sherlock considerately zipped him back up and rose, glorying in the beautiful, candle-like scent of John all over him, and eased himself off the bed.

Maybe he should pick through John’s belongings while the human was unconscious. Just as a sort of Getting To Know You thing. He turned to leave and then remembered the remark John’s mind made about the roof. Sherlock re-attached the restraints to John’s ankles and wrists—not meant to be hostile or threatening, really, just a little something to make sure he didn’t suddenly hear Glass!! and have to come flying up the stairs to keep John from slicing his own throat on the vanity mirror.

Probably have to take all the mirrors out of the flat, and wasn’t that ironic, that it wasn’t because of the vampire, but because of the human?

Sherlock went downstairs and opened John’s rucksack, dumping the contents out on the rug. He sorted through them quickly. Very little that was personal. Coffee mug. Laptop. Oh, gun! Ooo, nice gun, Sherlock thought, turning the weapon this way and that in his long, delicate fingers.

How happy he'd be to have a human thrall with a gun at his side, to wend through the rainslick streets of London at night while chasing guilty prey on behalf of Scotland Yard.

Sherlock hesitated. How unhappy he’d be if his delicious new pet up and shot himself because he had some paranoid notion that Sherlock was going to suck his brains out and it was somehow a statement of autonomy to blow them out himself first. Hm. Sherlock slid the gun under the sofa and continued picking through John’s belongings.

Well, that didn’t take long. John traveled light.

Then he opened the laptop, eventually deduced the password from keyboard wear alone (which is why you should change your password regularly), and picked through John’s browsing history. Well, he was mostly straight but some of the acts he had an interest in could be used by anyone. Most of them, really. So that was good.

Sherlock sat back on his heels and looked around at the messy flat. It really did look rather pathetic in here. He rose and made an effort at gathering papers into piles and pushing things aside enough to bare a few flat surfaces, when suddenly it occurred to him that John should probably be waking from his nap by now. It was getting dark out. Post-coital, even with stress relief… 45 minutes was about the norm.

He lifted his head and listened for thoughts from upstairs. Nothing. What about dreams? Sherlock listened harder. He closed his eyes and tried to smell something… tried to see something… because clearly John didn’t think like most people. But no, nothing.

Good Lord, he’s not dead is he? Sherlock grabbed the rucksack, crept up the stairs, and peeked in the door to find John wide awake and staring at the ceiling. In silence. Sherlock pushed open the door and their eyes met again.

“Would you like to unpack?” Sherlock asked politely.

“Bit tied up,” John responded.

“Oh, yes.” Sherlock came forward, unlatched the restraints, and settled himself on the bed as John pulled himself in, and up, and managed to get stiffly to his feet. He hobbled past Sherlock.

“Loo,” he explained.

“No glass.” Sherlock warned, and John gave a miserable wave of acknowledgment and went to relieve himself.

Sherlock waited. Alright then, this was going well enough. Nothing like a good sucking to break the ice (and he meant that in every possible way.) John returned and began putting his clothes into the available dresser with admirable docility.

When he was finished, he said, “Where’s my gun?”

“Ah,” said Sherlock. “Let’s wait a bit on that, shall we?”

John stared at him.

“Tea?” Sherlock asked, and rose, and led the way downstairs. John followed.

 

When Sherlock offered tea, what he really meant was that he would show John where everything was, and then he would sit down, and watch John make tea.

“So, let’s lay it out, then,” Sherlock began, and immediately smelled woodsmoke coming out of John’s thoughts. Now that was interesting, because woodsmoke is actually a pleasant smell, generally. It does suggest something is being destroyed (wood) but it’s also a common symbol of hearth and home, of warmth and light… really, unless you’re a tree, it’s a nice smell.  
It wasn’t entirely a nice smell coming from John and Sherlock felt like someone here was the tree, but he couldn’t tell yet which of them it was. John continued making tea with sharp, firm motions. Yes, something was definitely burning.

“First, I’m really not going to kill you.” Said Sherlock.

_Until, of course, the time comes…_ John’s brain answered, and Sherlock wanted to say, “Well, that’s a very long time off, so let’s not worry about it now,” but then John would know he was a mind-reading vampire, and if that won’t make a human paranoid, nothing will.

Sherlock settled for, “I really do want to keep you for a very, very long time, John.” That was meant to be reassuring, but John’s hands stilled and he stared off into space directly in front of him.

_You’ll keep me till you’ve stripped everything away and I’m nothing but a shell in your hands. Helplessly in love. No will of my own. Then you’ll smash me._

Good Lord, thought Sherlock. What did that even mean? He sighed and decided to reason it out later.

“You’ve been working at some job below your skill set, that much is obvious from the lack of medical publications of your own in your possession. You keep abreast but you don’t publish, so you don’t work at a reputable hospital. And when I first saw you, you were coming from due West, where the veteran’s clinic is. You’d not been walking long because your ears weren’t red from cold yet so that’s certainly where you were employed. It’s a boring place, the pay is negligible, and I have a decent trust fund so you won’t need to work any longer. I’d rather you were at my disposal at all times, so I’ve taken your phone and texted your resignation to… is it Sarah?”

The humming started again. Woodsmoke very strong now. Sherlock mentally revisited his speech and wondered what had set John off this time. How many humans objected to a vampire with a trust fund, for God’s sake? Proletariat nonsense.

John turned and stared at Sherlock.

“Is the tea ready?” Sherlock asked to distract him. John turned back, poured the tea, set one up in front of each chair, and sank into the empty one across from Sherlock. Then he put his elbows on the table and put his face into his hands.

Sherlock took a sip of tea—vampires could drink liquids, it was solids that were difficult to process-- and listened for some thought that would let him know what John’s current breakdown was over, but nothing came other than the words:  
 _Done. Finished. That’s it then._

Hm. Sherlock decided to continue with the basics. “I only need blood about every other day, so I was thinking two bags a week, I keep them in the refrigerator, and then you on the weekend.”

John looked at Sherlock from between his fingers. Sherlock gave another of his wolfish smiles.

“I can take it from somewhere the marks don’t show, if you like.”

_Oh, God, yes,_ said John’s brain, followed by _Oh, God, no. Jesus,_ finally followed by the usual, _Fuck.  
Fuck. I am so fucked._

“You can help me with my research,” Sherlock offered tentatively. John looked at him silently. No questions followed. Time to wrap it up then.

“There really are only two rules for being my thrall. One: do whatever I tell you. Two: don’t do anything I tell you not to. There. That’s not difficult, is it?” Sherlock finished brightly.

Silence. Sherlock’s phone vibrated and he rose, and located it on the desk in the sitting room. As he took the call, he said back to John casually, “And we’ll be having sex eventually so please get used to the idea and stop planning to hurl yourself off a bridge. Yes Detective. No, I wasn’t talking to you, what is it?”

John went facedown on the table. But the woodsmoke smell disappeared as if a freezing wind had felled the entire forest.

“But I pointed that all out to Anderson last night. Oh, he’s an idiot, do you really expect me to come down and go through it all again?”

Pause. Sherlock regarded John as he picked his face up off the table and drank a sip of his tea, eyes unfocused.

“Fine. We’ll be there in a half hour. I’m bringing John, he’s my new thrall. Yes, just got him. Can’t really leave him alone, he keeps trying to kill himself. I don’t know. Maybe you can talk to him. I think he’s worried I’m going to ruthlessly use him as a sexual toy. Well yes, but you could perhaps explain that this is indeed survivable. . . hello?”

Sherlock looked at the phone and then put it away. “Hm. Are you hungry? It’s nearly dinner time, we can stop along the way.”

 

Detective Lestrade, a handsome fellow with a boyish face beneath prematurely silver hair, turned in the clean, white corridor outside of St. Bart’s mortuary bureau to see one of the only two vampires he could stomach sweeping out of the lift and striding toward him, dramatic black coat billowing behind him. Just behind the coat came a small, unassuming looking human fellow with short, neat blond hair and his hands in the pockets of his tan jacket. Two creatures less alike could not be imagined.

Sherlock seemed to move down the corridor on invisible wings. John slunk along behind as if pulled by an invisible leash.  
Lestrade opened his mouth to offer an introductory remark, but Sherlock was already in full throttle.

“The scrap of note contained grammatical errors that were not the result miseducation but rather first language interference. The lack of definite articles suggests the writer’s first language is Russian, as does the initial at the bottom which that idiot Anderson mistook for an N but is in reality the Russian I, possibly standing for Ivan. The ropes around his wrists are soaked in salt water suggesting he is a sailor, and the knots on the two cut pieces are not the same knots. If a kidnapper or murderer had tied him up, the knots would be the same. They are not the same suggesting the Russian tied them himself, using his hands for the first and his mouth and one hand for the second. Why would a man tie himself with salt-soaked ropes? Obvious answer: If he was tying himself to something aboard the ship for safety not restraint. A man would only do that if he had no one left to help him on the ship. His crew is all dead, he is the last survivor, he tries to leave a note explaining but the note is taken from his body leaving only the final scrap we saw clutched in his hands, therefore you are looking for an abandoned Russian ship with a very suspicious cargo. I would suggest the wharves. This is John, don’t let him kill himself, I’ll be back as soon as I’ve spoken to Molly.”

Sherlock swept back toward the lift, but paused in the corridor abruptly. From behind him, a sudden scent bloomed, a wild, clear, gorgeous smell like… like a huge lily opening. Or a magnolia. Sherlock turned to find John staring at him, full in the eyes, his mouth open, and a soft, wondrous smell wafting off him in tendrils.

“That was amazing,” John breathed, and his brain echoed, _Amazing. My God._ And suddenly Sherlock had a sense that the black and white photo of him that John held in his head as reference had just been colored in with flattering hues, and begun to … glow, or something. John was staring at him as though really seeing him for the first time, as something more than a threatening black shape with a coldly beautiful face on it.

Sherlock hesitated. “Yes. Well. I’ll be right back. No glass.” He turned and fairly flew down the corridor, because now he was anxious to speak to Molly, pick up his riding crop he’d left earlier, and get John back home again. Let’s knead this dough while it’s soft, as Mrs. Hudson would say.

John, still stunned, turned back toward Lestrade, who gave a rather crooked little smile. “Yeah, he’s always like that.”

They stood a moment in silence. “So." Lestrade ventured, "Working late this evening, aren’t we?” John looked at him silently. “You’re his um… new… assistant?”

John was grateful for the tact. “Right.” His eyes still didn’t know quite where to settle.

“Say, listen, Sherlock is—he helps us a lot. He’s kind of a prat sometimes but I think he’s a decent enough sort over all. He’s not like a lot of them are.” Lestrade offered helpfully.

Before John could answer, Sherlock re-appeared behind him. “On second thought,” he mused, eying John closely. John shifted nervously under that gaze. “Come.” Sherlock commanded, and zipped forward to grab John’s hand so quickly, it unnerved the smaller man completely. Heedless, the vampire flew down the corridor again, dragging John behind him. A moment later they were in the lift and sinking down to the basement where Molly was working around the riding crop Sherlock had left behind. She was afraid to touch it, really, but she couldn’t quite forget it was there.

In the lift, Sherlock turned, crowded John up against the wall, and stared down at him, their faces only inches apart.

“I haven’t kissed you yet, have I?” Sherlock mused softly, and John looked at those curved, distinctive lips, and wondered just exactly how kissing worked when one of the kissers had blood-drawing, razor sharp fangs. His breath came a little short.

_Fangs,_ was the only word his mind emitted, and Sherlock could taste John imagining the taste of his own blood in his mouth. That was… oh, right, the teeth. Sherlock smiled the tight little fang-concealing smile that he’d perfected years ago when he wanted to smile without alarming humans.

It really just alarmed most people more, that frigid little quirk of the lips that creased his cheeks but left his eyes staring at them like ice chips.

_Creepy._ John’s mind said flatly, and Sherlock pulled away, affronted. The lift opened and now an ill-tempered vampire surged out, his human thrall stepping quietly behind him, unaware that he’d hurt Sherlock’s feelings again.

Well. Good thing I’m picking up the riding crop. I might want to use it, Sherlock huffed to himself, and turned to take his mood out on the eager but nervous young woman with the clipboard who always seemed to be in the wrong place at the wrong time where Sherlock was concerned.

“Molly if I’ve said it once I’ve said it a hundred times, do not hand over any paperwork to Anderson unless it has first passed through Detective Lestrade’s hands. Do not give him any original paperwork, do not give anything he can lose, change, destroy, or misinterpret. Are you incapable of following the most basic orders or are you simply so stubborn you are hoping to provoke me into using that riding crop on you, which by the way you will bring to me at once and don’t do your hair that way, it’s childish and unprofessional looking, all on one side like that.”

Molly’s lip quivered and Sherlock did his best to tune out her I know he’s right he must be right it must be me I’m such an idiot he wouldn’t act like that if I could just not disappoint him but no matter how hard I try—

From behind him, John’s thoughts rang out so loudly that Molly’s were drowned out completely in the weltering wave of sarcasm that hit Sherlock from behind.

_Mum, Dad, this is my vampire Sherlock! He’s an abusive, ill-tempered, bipolar arse! But you should see him suck a dick. It’s a gift, by God._

Sherlock stiffened and turn to regard John in astonishment. Well. That was the most he’d gotten out of him since last night’s soliloquy about dying under the stars. Rigidly, Sherlock turned his back again. I am not bipolar, he thought loftily.

From behind, much more quietly.

_Fuck, he heard that. Somehow he heard that. Oh, fuck. I am so fucked._

“Yes, you are,” Sherlock announced as Molly scuttled forward with the riding crop.

_Fuck. FuckFuckfuckfuckfuckfuck._

Sherlock turned and brushed past him, gesturing to the lift with a swoosh of the riding crop. “You keep saying that word. I don’t think it means what you think it means,” Sherlock commented, and was baffled when John burst into hysterical giggles and sputtered “Inconceivable!” as the lift doors closed.

They took a cab back to Baker Street in utter silence. Sherlock could smell John emanating an odor of leather mixed with a sort of sour lemon that he assumed was fear, and specifically fear of the riding crop. Only once, as they were passing over the bridge, did John look longingly out the window and think, _Bridge!_ and Sherlock could almost feel him tensing as if to shove open the door and roll out onto the pavement.

“No!” He said sharply, and tapped John’s thigh lightly with the riding crop.

_Ow._

Indeed.

The humming started up again. Sherlock stared at John’s face to see if any of his unease was visible, but as usual, no. Completely impassive. A true poker face. The cab pulled up to Baker Street and by now it was quite late. Sherlock paid the cabbie and the two men stood for a moment under the streetlight outside the black door of 221B Baker Street.

John gave another wistful look away from Sherlock, down the street. _Run…_ But the thought was so obviously hopeless that even the word echoing in his brain simply sounded sad. Sherlock was still in a foul mood, and characteristically didn’t try to conceal it.

“If you ever attempt to run from me I will put a collar on you and lead you around on a leash,” he snapped, and opened the front door. From behind, he heard what sounded like a brick wall falling on a cowering figure and crushing it, but when he looked back, John was simply following him, blank-faced, up the stairs.

I hope that brick wall was all your hopes and dreams, you ungrateful wretch, Sherlock thought, and pulled John into the flat. He shucked his coat and hung it on the peg. He yanked John’s coat off his shoulders and hung it on the peg next to it.

Sherlock moved on into the sitting room, but John stared at the coats hanging, side by side, for a moment.

_Almost looks like two humans live here instead of one piece of bait and one shark with Tourette’s syndrome and opposable thumbs--_

Oh, my, we were full of witty thoughts now, weren’t we? Sherlock brooded. He sank down into his chair by the fireplace, riding crop still in one hand, and let it trail languidly at his side.

“John, come sit in my lap,” he said, tilting his head back against the leather and gazing over at his suddenly very still human.

Humming. But not as loud as before. Not terribly alarmed. Probably aware that on my lap you really aren’t at the right angle for a good beating. Not if you’re face up, anyway.

“Now.” He added. The humming stopped and John walked just close enough to be out of reach.

“No.” He said. His mind didn’t add any commentary. Hm. Immediate danger made the mind go quiet.

“You can come sit on my lap and let me feed,” Sherlock told him calmly, “or you can take a beating from the crop and I’ll lick the blood off when I’m done.”

_…I don’t think he’s going to do that._

Without another word, Sherlock whipped up the crop and brought it down on the leather of the empty seat facing him. It cut a slice right through the leather, and John stared for a second. Then he looked back at Sherlock.

“You want me facing this way or—“

“Really doesn’t matter.”

With a swallow, John sat down on Sherlock’s lap and let the vampire curl his arms tightly around him. Fingers unbuttoned his shirt and smoothed it open again. John watched those white fingers move around his chest, over the one bruised and bitten nipple. He started to feel that heavy, woozy feeling he had felt earlier when Sherlock was drinking from his neck. And the bastard hadn’t even started yet.

The fingers went to his other nipple, and Sherlock breathed, “Let’s make this a matched set, shall we?” Then he shifted John and lowered his lips to the sensitive skin, licked, bit, and began sucking. John closed his eyes and let the vampire move him however he wanted, going limp and letting that heart-pounding feeling sweep over him. Sherlock’s lips and teeth worked and massaged his flesh for several minutes while John bit his own lips and tried not to make any embarrassingly aroused sounds.

Finally, Sherlock released the bruised nipple and lifted his mouth to John’s. His good mood seemed quite restored by the scent of John’s helpless surrender to the erotic feelings the blood sucking created. Carefully, Sherlock pressed a kiss on the slack lips and whispered, “I know I said I’d save you for weekends, but I really think I’ll have to take just a taste every day.”

_Fine. Do it. Do it every single day. Damn, this is how they get you. It feels so fucking good the next thing you know you’re just—_ He felt John squelch the thought deliberately.

Sherlock smiled.

“So. Do you want to sleep in my bed with me, or in restraints upstairs?”

_Fuck. I am so fucking fucked._


	3. Vamplock Ch 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John learns that Sherlock will molest you in your sleep and then threaten your family. But, you know, not like in a BAD way.

“So,” Sherlock had asked. “Would you like to sleep in my bed with me, or in restraints upstairs?”

John, still trapped in Sherlock’s lap, his head dizzy and buzzing, took a deep breath. Neither of these options was appealing.

_Stall._

“Mind if I use the shower?”

Sherlock released him. “But of course,” he said, and sank back into his chair contentedly, watching his human make for the bathroom. He picked up the riding crop again and spent several satisfying minutes using it to conduct the "Troika" portion of Sergei Prokofiev's Lieutenant Kijé Suite.

He was really quite happy. He’d found a thrall that, well, with a little training, could undoubtedly keep him amused for years. I’ll ravish him thoroughly tonight and start training him tomorrow, Sherlock decided, listening as the water in the shower shut off. He tuned in for John’s thoughts.

_No mirror now. Oh well, whose fault is that, yeah?_ was all he heard. But the scents coming from the bath kept alternating between two distinct flavors. One smelt like being confined in a small, stale wooden place, like being locked in a chest or coffin. The other smelled like sharp bursts of cinnamon and musk and bayberries, mixed with an occasional taste of something like tears (if Sherlock remembered correctly. He hadn’t cried since 1880 but he did vaguely remember being a human child.)

Now what could those two scents mean? Stale, stuffy, uncomfortable… now back to the lush, spicy, but with those pitiable undertones. Back and forth. As if he was trying to decide between two… Oh.

Sherlock smiled. He hoped his bed was the spicy option.

John finally emerged, hair towel-dried, dressed in his pajamas. How quaint, these cotton striped things, John looked like a little boy in them. A little boy with a rather wizened face, but still just terribly appealing. And all mine, Sherlock thought, rotating one foot absently, as he often did when he was happy. Then he became aware that the stuffy, wooden smell had predominated over the intriguing spicy one, and his foot stopped rotating when John cleared his throat and said, “Ah, I think I’ll just sleep upstairs.”

Sherlock actually felt that stab of rejection in his chest. He gave John a heart-melting look, and the other man averted his eyes.

_I think you’ve manipulated me enough for one day,_ John’s mind grumbled.

“Certainly,” Sherlock said coldly. “A room of your own, that’s … quite understandable. Well then, up we go and I’ll just put you to bed.”

A moment later, John was standing by the bed, staring down at the restraints waiting for him at each corner. Sherlock waited behind him, doing his best to hide his smile.

“Would you like to be face up or face down?” He asked considerately, and enjoyed the smell of burning woodsmoke rolling out of John’s head. With a faint tinge of orange. Like a … well, a burning orange tree, he supposed.

John, for his part, continued to stare down, aware that he’d never in his life hoped to be put in the position of informing a vampire (and a male one) that he’d like to be tied to a bed facedown, if you please. He turned and gave Sherlock a long look.

“It’s not that I think you’ll run,” Sherlock told him reassuringly. “After all, I have your gun, your identification, your money, your bank card, and your cellphone—“ John looked quickly over to the dresser where he’d left … yes, all gone.

Oh my, the whole orchard’s burning now, Sherlock noted with amusement.

“It’s just that I am worried about this self-destructive impulse you have. Really, John, all I want is your safety and comfort.”

John took a deep breath. “Sherlock, I promise, I…” then he just stopped, and Sherlock thought, you can’t make a false promise, can you? Interesting.

“Right. Face up then, I think,” Sherlock decided, and then scooped John up, dumped him on the bed, subdued his struggles easily, and wrestled each rebellious arm into the restraints.

“Not the feet,” John begged suddenly. Sherlock straightened up and tugged his shirt back down, which had gotten a bit untucked in the struggle.

“Very well,” he agreed. Then he sighed and turned off the lamp by the bed. “I’ll just pop down for a shower and then I’ll check on you one more time…” he promised, and left John glowering at the ceiling in a fog of burning orange wood.

John was just calming down enough to relax and even consider sleep when his door opened and Sherlock reappeared, silhouetted against the light glowing from the hall. His curls were damp, and he was dressed for the night in a t-shirt and pajama bottoms, with a long, silky blue housecoat that trailed like a floaty, nightwear version of his black coat.

“Oh, John,” he murmured, coming forward to lower himself on top of his victim. “Let me just take one more smell of that neck…” he whispered, nuzzling in. Then he relaxed with a blissful sigh, letting his full, warm-from-the-shower weight press down on John with a hum of contentment. John lay silent, staring doggedly at the ceiling.

Sherlock nuzzled some more. “I don’t really like this bed, but I suppose we could make it work,” he added, his breath tickling John’s ear.

John’s eyes widened. He’d spent 20 minutes trying to decide if he wanted to be tied up, or pinned by a vampire. Now he was tied up and pinned by a vampire.

_I’m cursed. I’m truly cursed. I might as well be Irish._

He felt Sherlock’s lips curve into a smile against his neck. Then the vampire mouthed a series of languid kisses down John’s neck. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to sleep downstairs with me?” He asked.

_Yes, John. Would you liked to be fucked, or would you like to be fucked?_

John took a deep breath. Untied was better than tied, then, if that’s what the choices were down to. “Yes, alright,” he managed, a little breathless with Sherlock’s full weight pressing him into the bed.

With a victorious smirk, Sherlock untied John, and led him down to his own bed by the hand. “In we go,” he breathed, closing the door behind them and snapping a padlock on it. John looked at the lock and then glanced around the bedroom. Dark… messy but the furniture was of good quality. Very large bed—

Sherlock whipped the covers back, shrugged off his blue housecoat and let it float to the floor. Then he tumbled into bed and opened his arms invitingly to John.

An unexpected burst of amusement that had a disturbing touch of fondness to it went through John’s stomach. God, they were an engaging breed, these damn vampires. This one especially, with his pretty, alien face and long snaky limbs, and that almost childish mop of hair…

Sherlock could just taste the flavor of John’s thralldom. Yes, that was that spicy, tart, juicy scent. Come fall in love with me, he thought, and John moved forward as if obeying the command. Sherlock let John sink into the bed, and then he turned and maneuvered the smaller man onto his side, spooning him from the back. He wrapped his long limbs all around John, tangling and pulling and tightening until John resembled nothing so much as the half-drowned captive of an amorous squid.

“Mine,” Sherlock whispered into John’s nape, and felt a slight tremor of response.

“I want you to go to sleep now, John,” he whispered, and then very gently sank his fangs into John’s neck and released a flood of chemicals that made John give a whimper of helpless pleasure, and then go limp. “Because I’m going to do some terrible things to you tonight, John,” Sherlock added under his breath with wicked amusement, “and I think you’ll do better if you don’t wake up till we’re well underway.”

Sherlock reached to turn off the lamp, and then opened his bedside table in the dark, feeling for… well… things that make other things more comfortable. Then he settled back to wait for a bit.

It was around midnight.

John was floating in the dark, vaguely aware that he was snug, and warm, and very, very comfortable, except for a building pressure down low in a very intimate place. He was flat on his stomach and couldn’t move. His head felt heavy, and there was the scent of warm laundry in his nose, which was pleasant. Soft, these nice sheets he was on. Fresh, fluffy pillow wedged along side him. And a gorgeous touch of some manly cologne seemed to be mixed in.

He squirmed a bit to try and ease the pressure down in his nether regions but it only increased, sending tingles down his legs. His arms seemed hemmed in at his sides, and it wasn’t terribly disturbing because he was so completely warm and comfortable, except for that pressure, which felt both erotic and a little shameful. It was rather like he had to go to the bathroom but would rather just lay here and let it happen right in the bed like a two year old. He floated a bit more, his head pleasantly dizzy.

Oh, but that pressure.. nasty how good it felt. He was definitely getting aroused, and considered reaching down to touch himself, but he couldn’t move his arms, still. Then a squeeze between his legs made him think that he was already touching himself and his hand might not be able to feel it. My arms are asleep, he thought numbly, and squirmed a little more.

Squirming increased the sensation both of the pressure in his bum and the squeezing down between his legs. God, this was like an erotic dream from the absolute basest part of his brain. Now the pressure took on a gentle, rhythmic pulse, very slow, barely moving, but sending sparks of pleasure through his stomach, down his legs, into his cock, even making his mouth water.

John groaned and pushed back against the pressure and his mouth fell wide open at the zing of ecstatic sensation right down there between his arse cheeks. Oh God, this was the most amazing feeling. He rutted against it, feeling the squeeze on his cock tighten even more. Friction. He needed friction to release this tension, but he couldn’t gain it no matter how he squirmed. He was on the knife edge of orgasm, something was filling him and squeezing him and stimulating him but keeping him trapped all at once.

Suddenly he floated into wakefulness and understood exactly what his position was. He was face down on the bed, Sherlock was on top of him with his vampiric cock buried all the way up to the hilt in John’s spread arse, those long arms were wrapped around him, pinning his own arms to his sides, and one or both of Sherlock’s hands were buried beneath John, fingers sunk in handfuls of John’s cock and balls.

Oh, God! He was practically drooling into the sheet. No, he was drooling. He squirmed madly but Sherlock only ground his hips and planted himself even deeper, and those fingers did a teasing rippling massage on his throbbing privates that made him nearly scream.

“Oh God, please,” John gasped. “Please, please—“ he humped helplessly, impaling himself on Sherlock, grinding against the fingers that moved just enough to stimulate but not enough to give the wild friction that would let him come.

A deep voice spoke teasingly in his ear. “How do you feel, John?”

John answered with an incoherent wail and squirmed some more. Even squirming was an erotic pleasure when he couldn’t move more than an inch. Sherlock withdrew a little and then plunged in again and held still once more. John let out a groan so deep it was almost inhuman. Behind him, Sherlock chuckled.

“You like this,” he rumbled. John couldn’t do anything but whimper pleadingly. Even his brain couldn’t form any words, only pump out wave after wave of sharp, musky, pleasured distress mixed with longing and shame. Delicious, thought Sherlock, moving his fingers just enough along John’s cock to bring him to the very beginning of orgasm, and then stopping and squeezing again. Another thrust from behind made John scream right into the mattress.

Finally John lifted his face enough to start begging again. “Please, please, Sherlock, please—“

“Please what, John?” Sherlock ground against him slowly. “Hm?”

“Please let me come,” John gasped out shamelessly.

“Oh, no, I don’t think so.” Sherlock wiggled the fingers he’d lodged up under John’s balls and gave another thrust. “I think I’ll just keep you like this all night long. Begging and squirming…”

John let out a strangled cry and bucked his hips again feverishly. Sherlock gave the head of his cock a tight pinch and felt the shudder run through the body beneath him. Then he buried his fangs in John’s neck and sucked for a bit. John was keening under him now. Sherlock thrust twice more and John gave a grateful whimper that turned to a frustrated whine.

“Oh, this makes you taste… so sharp and sweet,” Sherlock unlatched his teeth long enough to say. John gave a miserable moan.

_You. Are. A. PRICK._

Sherlock chuckled and nuzzled him. “Do you want to come?” He teased, and rocked back and forth slowly, returning his mouth to John’s neck and sucking some more.

“Please, please, please…” John begged into the sheets.

“Hmm… no.” Sherlock told him, and bit him again.

He could almost play John’s body like the violin, he realized. Thrusts that simulated from behind made him give deep body  
groans. Teasing strokes along the shaft produced high-pitched whimpers. Wiggling the fingers that dug into the perineum drew sharp, tormented cries, and of course, digging in the fangs made him moan softly.

And a pinch to the tip of his cock made him beg. Sherlock tortured John for several minutes more, until the poor man’s body was shaking and his mind was emitting nonsense sounds that sounded rather like the musical equivalent of a sustained car accident.

John started begging again. Well, probably he’s had enough, Sherlock thought, and obligingly began thrusting in earnest, pulling back enough so that John could rut into Sherlock’s hand and finally ride it to shattering relief.

John thrashed wildly beneath him, spilling more liquid than he’d ever produced in his life as Sherlock battered him from behind with punishing slaps of his hips. Waves of pleasure convulsed John, and when he finally sank back into the bed (and a prodigious wet spot), and Sherlock collapsed on top of him with a sigh, John was fairly certain his mind had been purged of all capacity for shame. Rather by force.

They lay in a sweaty heap for some time, and when Sherlock finally dismounted and weakly passed John a towel, there was nothing to say. John cleaned himself up with shaking hands, Sherlock pushed another towel over the wet spot, and they both fell into exhausted sleep that lasted till morning.

 

When John awoke in the morning, the bedroom door was open, and he could hear Sherlock’s voice in the sitting room. He seemed to be on the phone.

John hauled himself up with difficulty. His legs were shaky, his bum burned a little bit (but be honest, it wasn’t bad), and he felt like he hadn’t eaten in 2 days. Sherlock was taking too much blood, he thought dimly as he struggled into his discarded pajamas.

He staggered out to the kitchen and fumbled about to make tea, ignoring the well-dressed vampire lounging bonelessly on the sofa, speaking into the phone with his velvety voice.

“Oh yes, I’m certain he’s much better off with me. That neighborhood was dreadful. Oh, you didn’t… no, no, you really shouldn’t ever walk there by yourself. Yes. I know, but vampires aside, it’s simply not safe. Yes, this area is far superior—“

John tensed. Who the hell was Sherlock talking to… he stepped into the sitting room and realized that it was his own cell that Sherlock was chatting so cozily into.

“Mm, of course you’ll want to visit, although it’s such a mess here I’d be mortified. Why don’t you tell me where you live?”

John’s eyes widened.

_You son of a bitch, if you touch my sister I swear to God I will kill you while you sleep._

Sherlock merely smirked. “Yes, I know the area. Let me get back to you, hm? Oh, soon, soon. Certainly. It was nice to meet you! Oh, I’ll take good care of him, I assure you. Yes. Ta.”

Then he hung up and slipped John’s phone into his pocket, meeting John’s eyes challengingly.

“Your sister is really quite funny,” he remarked. Smoke was practically rolling off John’s head. Sherlock smelled… let’s see… burning tar, blood, metal, gun powder, gasoline… and … dead fish? Not sure.

Sherlock rolled to his feet.

“Right. Well. Let’s get started, shall we?” Sherlock picked up a black box about the size of a shoebox, but flatter, and took it to the kitchen table. He sat down and gestured for John to take a seat opposite him.

For a long moment, John refused to sit, staring down at Sherlock with death threats in his eyes.

“Oh, does it hurt to sit down? Sorry.” Sherlock purred.

John sat down and the … well, at least the dead fish smell faded. Still burning, though. Sherlock was amused.

“So. I have to go to the bank and then Scotland Yard this morning, and I’ll be back at noon. By noon I expect the flat—“ he waved a long, elegant hand in the general direction of the sitting room “—tidied a bit. The Queen’s not coming for white glove inspection so you needn’t get carried away, just, you know, not so living-like-a-pig I believe you described it. Then I advise you to go to Tesco and buy whatever food you’ll need to keep you alive in the foreseeable future. I took your bank card, I’m fairly certain I can figure out your security code, and I’ll be transferring all your funds into my own account—it’s just more convenient for us both to pool our resources, don’t you think? So I’ll leave this cash for you to get groceries with. Save the receipts, once I see you can be trusted on your own I won’t be such a stickler but in these first days, you understand, it’s best to do things by the book. Now—“

Sherlock paused to draw a breath and register the smell of John’s thought. Smells like snow mixed with smoke. Hm.

“—there are four likely outcomes of me going off like this and leaving you to your own devices. The best outcome, of course, is that you clean the flat, buy the groceries, and in general behave like the closest thing to an intelligent and reasonable creature that a human can muster. I’m sure you can come closer than most. However, I am aware that you are still adjusting to our arrangement and may still suffer some residual upset that could inflame your thoughts enough for you to decide to attempt something foolish—“

Another breath.

“—The second possible outcome is that you may feel compelled to simply be non-compliant and refuse to clean or shop, in which case I’ll give you a beating that will combine pain and humiliation in such a manner as to leave you demolished and unable to look me in the eye for a week. Especially if it turns out that you rather enjoy it, which I suspect is possible and you’d rather I not know that. I’ll find out eventually, but if you’re in no hurry to have all your sexual secrets stripped bare and exploited mercilessly, I suggest you clean the flat and buy some bread.”

John’s face was bright red. The kettle was steaming and so was he.

“Kettle’s boiling. Now. The third possible outcome is that you will fling yourself off a building, off a bridge, in front of a moving vehicle, at some armed thug, or onto some sharp object. If you do, your sister Harry has kindly given me her address and I’ll be forced to content myself with discovering whether she has eyes like yours and how she tastes when she’s in pain. Neither of us wants that. Don’t kill yourself.”

Sherlock expected a plume of evil-scented smoke but instead, a faint, helpless look came over John’s face and there was no smell at all. Oh, well, good. Sherlock decided to hurry and finish because he had errands to run. John was stunned, so Sherlock got up with a sigh, poured the water for tea himself, and returned to the table with the two cups.

“Finally, last possible option, you try to run away. Sugar? No. Fine—“ Sherlock opened the black box on the table. Nestled inside was a thick, expensive, exquisitely worked black leather collar with silver trim. He lifted it out and let John get a good look at it. “Personally, I think you’d look better in brown, so I’ll have to order another as soon as I can but for now, if you attempt to run away from me, I will hunt you down and you’ll wear this until your new one arrives. Do you like it?” He finished, and John stared at the collar in horror.

“No? No, I thought not. Well. Don’t try to run away and we won’t have to go leash shopping. I am not jesting in any way and I do not make empty threats. Don’t try to run away. Alright.”

Sherlock put the collar down and took a sip of his tea. “Do you have any questions?”

John sat and stared past him like a man who has just come home to find his house has burned to the ground.

“No?”

Not even a smell. Any thoughts? No? Nothing? Not even another round of I-am-so-fucked? Hm. Well.

“Alright then. We remember, yes? Noon? Clean? Shop? Good.”

Sherlock finished his tea, swept through the sitting room, donned his coat with a flourish and was just about to leave when he heard.

_I hate you._

Sherlock sighed and turned to see John standing a few feet away, regarding him bleakly.

He stepped up to the smaller man and drew a caressing hand over his face, letting his own face soften as he stared down into the dark blue eyes. “Oh, John. You have no idea how much you’ve changed my life. How lonely it was here before you came… my John.”

Then he kissed the other man gently on the lips and stared lambently down at him.

_Fuck. FUCK. See, this is how they get you. Bastard. God he smells good. Oh, get the fuck out._

“Don’t forget to tidy the bathroom,” Sherlock added, and left, satisfied.


	4. Vamplock Ch 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock start getting to know each other. Out of bed, I mean.

After Sherlock left, John decided that his only available form of rebellion for now was to ignore the order in which Sherlock’s commands had been given, and go to the store first, and “tidy” after. A look in the refrigerator sent him backing away in disgust. A glance around the flat suggested that he might not have TIME to “tidy” and go to the store before noon. If he wasn’t back when Sherlock returned, would the nutter decide he’d mounted some escape attempt? Use it as an excuse to break out that collar? Not a test John wanted to run. So John went to his room, got dressed, and turned to leave.

Then he glanced back at the restraints still dangling from the corners of the bed. Was there some way he could compromise them such that he could undo them without…? Oh, of course. John detached the upper left one from its post at the end attached to the bed, but left it draped suggestively in its proper position at the corner of the mattress. If he didn’t struggle, Sherlock might not notice.

Feeling slightly less trapped, John took the money from the table and went to the store like a good little thrall. It was a relief simply to be out walking around, alone, and with at least the illusion of freedom. It was even a sunny day. He went through the Tesco at his usual pace, snatching up the staples he always kept in his own fridge, and then he returned to his new “home.”

Still an hour before Sherlock was to return. With a sigh, John picked about the kitchen, moving some very unpleasant looking chunks of what looked like inedible meat (or human flesh) down to the lower shelves of the fridge and cleaning the vacated shelves thoroughly. He then stacked his own food on the right and moved Sherlock’s blood bags over to the left.

After doing the dishes, John decided that the black box with the collar on it should definitely be “tidied” somewhere out of sight, and he hid it in a cupboard. And the riding crop could be tidied right up on top of the window frame behind the curtain. The sitting room, well… what could he do but dust and fold the blanket on the sofa. Straighten some piles of books. Bathroom was actually easier; it was a normal bathroom and Sherlock, to his surprise, had the normal grooming items that any human would have. Even a toothbrush. Fangbrush.

John unpacked the rest of his own toiletries and added them. _Look at that,_ he mused. _Looks like two perfectly normal flatmates live here._ You’d never know the one would eventually cannibalize the other until he destroyed his spirit, broke his heart, and then killed him, if the bloke didn’t just drink him dry by the end of the week.

John turned and jerked back, letting out a bark of alarm. Sherlock was standing in the doorway of the bathroom, looking at him. Then he looked past him to admire the domestic display of their toiletries ranged companionably together. Unlike John, Sherlock found it a rather heartwarming little sight. Our things, he thought complacently.

John followed Sherlock back into the sitting room and watched uneasily as the vampire glanced around approvingly. “Good. Good, really, much nicer. Now, see, was that so bad?”

He didn’t seem to expect an answer, which was a good thing. Sherlock checked the kitchen and peeked into the fridge. “Yes. Fine. Good enough then. Alright,” he turned to John with a pleased expression that was close as he generally got to a smile. “Let’s teach you how to heat up the blood bags so you can fix my meals.”

_Oh, what an honor._

Sherlock ignored that, loathe to let John know just how much of a mind-reader he could be. He’d already rather slipped up last night, and hoped that John had either forgotten, or decided he must have said something out loud, or come up with any of the other myriad explanations humans used when Sherlock did something uncanny.

Under the vampire’s supervision, John carefully warmed up a blood bag in a pot of water on the stove, using a cooking thermometer to bring it to just the right temperature.

Finally, he handed it to Sherlock, who popped off the safety seal and tossed it back with a grimace. He swallowed several times, like a child who has just gulped down nasty medicine and can’t get the taste out of his mouth. John found himself grimacing in sympathy. It looked disgusting. “Tea?” He offered, before he could even help himself.

“Please,” Sherlock said, and John found himself making tea for two, and a sandwich for himself, in relative peace of mind.

When they were both settled comfortably in the chairs by the fireplace, Sherlock asked, “Where did you put the collar?”

John gave him a stubbornly blank look, but of course his mind immediately produced a snapshot of the cupboard in the kitchen. He saw Sherlock’s eyes flick directly to the cupboard, and a cold feeling settled in him. Damn, he’s good. Sherlock looked even more pleased.

“And the riding crop?” He asked.

Experimentally, John imagined throwing the riding crop under the couch. Sherlock’s eyes flicked over to the couch and he gave a smug, “Ah.”

A fireworks burst of tangerine-flavored triumph exploded in John’s head and then turned into tiny white stars that fell through the sky. Sherlock lost his pleased look and stared at John in alarm. His eyes narrowed.

“Where did you really put the riding crop…”

John bit his lip in frustration and tried desperately not to think of the ledge above the window. Sherlock turned and looked up at the ledge over the window. Immediately, John’s guilty mind obligingly threw up an image of the unhooked restraint in the bedroom upstairs.

Sherlock sat back in his chair and grinned one of his rare, natural grins. The kind that showed his fangs. How cute his human was! Perhaps – Oh, John was staring at his fangs in fascination. Alarm was bubbling up in his chest like turquoise lava. Alarm and … something else. The turquoise lava had a sweet, tart taste.

John set down his tea, came out of his chair and, to Sherlock’s great surprise, drew very close, peering at his mouth fixedly.

“Can I just--- just—“ John said, and then put his finger to Sherlock’s lips and touched a fang gingerly. “I’ve never actually seen them. I mean up close,” he murmured, and probed his finger a bit deeper, running it over the back of one long, pointed tooth.

“Gong?” Sherlock said, finding it difficult to enunciate with fingers in his mouth. “Gong, ve kerfoo, vey are vey farp.”

“Ow,” John commented, pulling his finger back to see blood pooling. Sherlock took John’s hand in his own and guided it back to his mouth, sucking the blood for a pleasurable moment, and then licking the wound closed. John took his finger back.

“Thank you,” he said uncertainly, and then returned to his chair.

“My pleasure.” Sherlock admitted, and then smirked and added, “Perhaps you should come sit here and I can make it your pleasure as well--?”

“No.” John said firmly, and then mustered up his courage. “You’re taking too much blood. I’m getting dizzy.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked down to the zip of John’s pants and he gave his human a look from under his lashes. “Are you sure you’re not getting dizzy for… some other reason?”

John shifted uncomfortably and looked toward the fireplace. There was no fire to stare at, so he imagined one.

Sherlock said seductively, “I could take just a bit from our favorite spot.”

John blinked rapidly and concentrated on his imaginary fire.

“Think of it as your reward for being so good this morning.” Sherlock lowered his voice to its deepest, most vibrant pitch. “I do like making you feel good, John.”

John swallowed and added a few mental logs to the fire.

“Or you could think of it as your punishment for hiding the riding crop. Oh, what a bad boy you are. I should toss you on your back and take down your pants—“

“Can I have my cellphone back?” John asked suddenly.

“Can I have a treat?” Sherlock asked immediately.

John was definitely woozy now, and Sherlock was right, it wasn’t for lack of blood. “…If I say yes, can I have my cellphone back?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened innocently. “Of course.”

John shuddered with anticipation, and muttered, “Alright then.”

Sherlock sat forward on his chair and held his arms open. “Come stand right here and open your pants.”

Face reddening, John complied, and watched with a mixture of trepidation, pleasure, and some awe as Sherlock flicked John’s clothing out of the way, grasped his hips tightly and sucked John’s cock right into his throat without a second’s pause. John’s knees buckled and his hands dug into Sherlock’s shoulders, and then his hair, and skittered all about the other man trying to keep hold of something solid as the blood roared in his ears and he felt the teeth sink in. John gasped. The pain was a poignant punctuation to the pleasure, and John was soon panting and blank-eyed and weak. Sherlock was suctioning the life right out of him, and nothing had ever felt so amazing. Within minutes, John was on his back on the rug and Sherlock was crouched over him like a large cat making a meal of a twitching, dying gazelle.

 _Think I love you,_ John thought dazedly, and Sherlock hummed a vibration that sent John into convulsions of bliss.

When he finally came to again, Sherlock handed him his cellphone. “You see, John? This is a reciprocal relationship. Did you change the sheets?”

John took his phone in shaking hands. “Um, not yet,” he managed.

“Might want to.” Sherlock told him, and then bounced happily up from the floor, scooped up John’s laptop, and settled at his desk to lose himself in who-knows-what. John zipped his pants up, rather abashed at how easily he’d given in, and lay on the rug checking his text messages.

Four from his sister, one from Sarah (accepting his resignation.)

He clambered to his feet and went to lie on the couch, still feeling weak. Carefully, he tapped out a message to Sarah, explaining his situation and apologizing. Suddenly, Sherlock focused on him.

“John. Why would a murderer hang his victim?”

John glanced over at him while a range of possibilities flitted through his head. Sherlock brightened. Ah, that was that riffle of images he’d first noticed about John when he was following him down the street two nights ago! John’s thoughts were like a deck of cards, and Sherlock simply picked them out of the air, saved them, and then spread them out in front of his mind’s eye like a man playing Solitaire.

John watched in fascination as the vampire’s eyes (beautiful eyes) fixed at some point in the air before him, and one long, elegant hand came up to point delicately from one image to the next as he murmured to himself, “Political statement, hm… sexual bondage-- accident, restraint--accident, revenge, time-lapse technique to allow for perp escape, technique to manipulate time of death--alibi… what’s this… empty noose… oh, yes, good point, John, hanging is not a spur of the moment decision in any case, is it? One might strangle with hands or belt or anything convenient, but to suspend a body in the air one needs to plan and the question is, were they planning to kill or was it something else… human motivations, alas… sometimes beyond me…”

Sherlock flicked the imaginary cards away and sat back, gazing down at the rather confused man on the couch. “That was actually quite helpful, John. Do go change the sheets on the bed. Laundry is downstairs, Mrs. Hudson will show you.”

He turned back to the laptop and seemed to forget John entirely. John lay on the couch for a moment longer, and then decided to go ahead and change the sheets. He had a feeling he’d be lying in them tonight, one way or another, and they might as well be clean.

 

Mrs. Hudson watched contentedly as the nice young man transferred her own load of clothes from the washer to the dryer and then loaded his own bundle of sheets in and started the cycle. “Thank you, dear, that’s so nice… perhaps you’d bring that load from the dryer over here and I’ll just fold and you sit with me and have some biscuits.”

Obligingly, John brought her clothes over and then settled into a chair and helped himself to the biscuits. It was nice to be with a human. Something that wasn’t going to read your mind, drink your blood, confuse your sex drive, and frighten the daylights out of you all at the same time.

“I’m so glad Sherlock has someone to take care of him now,” Mrs. Hudson confided, efficiently folding towels and setting them into tidy piles. John swallowed his biscuit with difficulty.

“Take care of HIM?”

“Oh yes. He doesn’t look after himself at all, you know, running around all hours and forgetting to feed. Sometimes he turns so white you could light the room with him. And then he gets cranky, and no one likes a cranky vampire. I’ve told him time and again that the boys down at Scotland Yard would call him far more often if he didn’t tear their heads off every time they open their mouths. Not literally of course. Well, there was that one fellow.”

Mrs. Hudson gave John a little smile. “But now he has you, and if you keep him fed and teach him some manners, I’m certain you could help him get along much better. It’s a shame to waste all that genius. His head is just like a rocket ship, you know, going and going, but his heart’s in the right place most of the time.”

John helped himself to another biscuit and let the old lady rattle on. “Saved my life, you know, Sherlock did. My husband wasn’t a good sort and if it weren’t for Sherlock, well, I’d never have been free of him.”

John’s eyes widened. “Did Sherlock… do something to him?”

“Oh, no, dear, he simply found the evidence that led to his conviction. Nasty mob business, you don’t want to hear about it. But let it be said, I was that grateful. I even offered… I mean, not in that sense, you understand, at my age, but you know they do need to feed and it wouldn’t have to be in that way, you take my meaning, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Said I wasn’t strong and it wouldn’t be good for me.” She put down the towel she was folding for a minute. “But for Sherlock, I would. If that’s what it took.”

John stared at her, understanding growing in his head. Then she shot him a roguish look. “But not like what you… I mean, you needn’t worry, I wouldn’t try to interfere, it’s clear you two boys have hit it off and all is as it should be.”

“Hit it off?” John asked.

“Oh, last night, dear. The walls here are rather thin. I thought he was killing you at first but after a while, well… clearly he wasn’t.”

John flushed. Wonderful. “I’m not gay, Mrs. Hudson.” He said flatly.

Mrs. Hudson looked off into the distance and mused, “You know, when I was in France I met a young man, oh, years ago. And I was only there for holidays and I never saw him again. I was married, you see, but… in a foreign country, I always feel it doesn’t really count.”

John stared at her.

“You understand.” She added.

John stared at her.

“He’s a vampire, so—“

“It doesn’t really count?” John asked.

“Exactly!” She beamed. “Would you just carry this basket into the bathroom for me? I have a hip, is all,” she tottered off and John carried the basket of towels after her. “Thank you dear. Now why don’t you go back up and check on Sherlock and I’ll make sure your sheets get to the dryer.”

John mounted the stairs and opened the door to the flat. Sherlock was still tapping away at John’s laptop. Mrs. Hudson called up behind him, “I’ll be sure to put a nice-smelling dryer sheet in with them, too.”

_That’s good, because I’ll probably spend half the night with my face in them._

“Yes, you will,” Sherlock murmured to himself, and John glanced back at him.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing. John, why would a murderer skin his victim post-mortem?”

A few ideas flitted through John’s head and he opened his mouth to answer but Sherlock nodded, “Yes, I thought so too.” And turned back to the computer. Suddenly, a flash of blue light seemed to reflect briefly across the window. “Do answer the door, John,” Sherlock said, still typing.

“What?” John asked, and then the doorbell downstairs rang.

“The door, John. Mrs. Hudson has a hip.”

Utterly confused, John trotted down the stairs and opened the front door to find Detective Lestrade looking exasperated. “Still alive I see. Why isn’t Sherlock answering his phone?!” As if this were John’s fault.

“When did you call?” John asked, leading the Detective up the stairs.

“About a half hour ago—“ Oh, it was John’s fault. So sorry, he was siphoning the blood out of my cock with his mouth although I suppose technically he had his hands free and could have just put you on speakerphone. John thought sarcastically, and opened the door to usher Lestrade into the flat.

Sherlock closed John’s laptop with a snap, whirled in his chair, and looked gleefully up at Lestrade.

“How many?”

“Just the one—“

“Same as the others?”

“Not exactly—“

“Note?”

“No, props.”

Sherlock’s eyes grew wild with joy. “Props!! I love props.”

Lestrade took Sherlock’s coat from the peg and held it out invitingly. “Then are you coming?”

Sherlock bounded up and practically waltzed into the coat. “John! Come!” Was all he said, and flew down the stairs. John pulled on his own coat, and followed the other two men out of the flat and into the police car.

Sherlock and John sat silently in the back of the police car as Lestrade navigated expertly through the streets. Sherlock stared out of the window and appeared to ignore John entirely, deep in thought. He was actually completely focused on John, but of course, the other man had no way of knowing it. John was simply staring out the windows, noticing the course they were taking and enjoying a feeling of bright, sparkling interest. Sherlock felt mentally around for John’s thoughts. Mostly, it was just…. Mood. A sharp, alert mood that tasted a bit like fresh green apple, smelt a bit like a garage but in an unobtrusive, men-at-work sort of way, and occasional flashes of bright colors, usually in rectangles like doors and billboards floated past going from left to right. Occasionally John’s mind let a word drift out. Murder. Business. Wealthy. Shipping?

Sherlock realized that John was trying to guess what he could from the part of town they were now entering. Oh, some of those colors were simply John registering their surroundings, cataloguing them. Might be how he remembered directions. Interesting.

What Sherlock was most pleased about, however, was that no taste or scent of tears, or burning, was wafting out. No mental cries of Glass or Jump!. Nothing of the sort. Good.

They pulled up near the wharfs and Lestrade ushered them out of the police car and into a warehouse. Several police cars, marked and unmarked, were pulled up and parked in disarray.

 _Of course,_ thought John, just as Sherlock sighed “It’s always a warehouse.”

They glanced at one another thoughtfully and followed Lestrade inside. Just inside, standing guard near a strip of yellow Do Not Cross tape, were several uniformed police, as well as two plain clothes detectives. One of those was an attractive woman with dark skin and a headful of spiral curls. Nice legs. Hostile face. John took her in at a glance and Sherlock was amused to note that he seemed to assign her a taste/smell category that seemed like a combination of licorice and gravy. Both pleasant. But not together. The other was a man with a pointed face and rather greasy black hair. John took a look at him and Sherlock heard _Snape_ but wasn’t able to place the reference. It didn’t sound like a compliment. Yes, well, if he didn’t like Anderson at first glance, he was truly a boon companion.

“Wot is he doin’ here?” Asked the woman.

“I brought him,” said Lestrade firmly, and the three brushed past to the body.

John and Lestrade stood back as Sherlock strode to the sprawled dead man lying on the dusty floor of the warehouse. Around him was a circle of powder. In his hand was a purple flower. Curious, John stepped closer and watched as Sherlock leaned over the corpse avidly, lips parted, eyes moving rapidly.

“Cuts his own hair, roughly made clothes, hands of a laborer but not a sailor, callouses in the center of the palms and not on the edges, pushing not pulling, doesn’t handle rope, pattern pressed into hair suggests he was wearing hat the hat is gone now, where is the hat? Button missing from coat but has been missing for some time, no broken thread, clue to victim’s identity not murderer’s—“

 _That’s a perfect circle,_ John thought, and Sherlock looked up at him abruptly.

“John, how would you make a perfect circle,” he asked, and John immediately produced an image of him making a circle from the inside, not the out. Easy from the inside, just turn, turn, turn—

“Yes… victim made the circle, not the murderer—“

_green stained fingers_

“—from clutching the flower, right, John, yes, so the killer didn’t place the flower post-mortem, the victim had it already, and was clutching it. It’s not a prop, it’s--

_Garlic._

“Garlic.”

Sherlock and John stared at each other again. “John, why would someone be clutching a garlic flower in this day and age? Everyone in England knows—“

_Not English? That thing you did about the Russian--_

“Oh my.” Sherlock stepped out of the circle and made a hyper, happy circuit around the warehouse. Anderson moved in to stand at Lestrade’s side and began to opine.

“It’s a serial killer, you know. Left that flower, like a sign? We’ll be seeing more of that. Some people think it’s a virility thing, ye know. Could be a sex killer.”

Sherlock turned on him and sneered. “Anderson don’t speak. In fact don’t breathe; every time you inhale you suck a bit more intelligence out of the room--“

“Sherlock,” John said firmly, and added mentally, _Stop._

The whole room fell silent. Sherlock and John stared at one another. Sherlock opened his mouth and John mentally shouted at the top of his mind’s voice: _STOP!!_

Sherlock blinked and glared at him. John looked back at the body.

_What’s that powder?_

Redirected, Sherlock whirled back toward the powdery circle, crouched, and focused. Behind him, the three police officers exchanged astounded glances and looked at John with new appreciation.

Unaware, Sherlock touched his fingers to the powder and brought it to his nose, sniffing carefully.

“Ground up crackers?” He mused.

_But you can touch it?_

Sherlock shot him an irritated glance. “Of course I can touch it, why wouldn’t I be able to—“

John’s mind produced an altar before a stained glass window.

“—oh suspicious nonsense everyone in England knows—“

John finally spoke out loud. “Yes, everyone in England, but—“ He pointed at the body.

Sherlock mused, “this man’s clothes, factory made, but years out of date,”

John added, “and the socks—“

Sherlock: “Like something your Grandmother would knit—“

_Old country_

“—where suspicion and witchcraft—“

_He must have thought--_

“—he knew he was dealing with—“

_Vampire, but. Dead._

“Not ex-sanguinated…”

John knelt by the body and carefully pressed the collar away from the neck. “Neck broken,” he declared.

“Hanged?” Sherlock asked hopefully, but John shook his head.

“Single blow” _Like you said you could do._

“Of course, someone strong enough—“

_Righthanded._

“—would have to be a vampire.”

John studied the bruise more closely, noting the way it curved up under the jaw rather than down toward the shoulder. He tried to visualize the hand coming from … what… slightly below--?

“Yes, of course, the attacker was shorter than his victim, very nice.” Sherlock breathed, staring at the picture floating in the air that John’s mind produced.

Lestrade was looking back and forth between John and Sherlock. “Care to share?” He interrupted, clearly frustrated.

Sherlock straightened his shoulders and beamed at Lestrade. “You’re looking for a short vampire with ties to the shipping business who was known to this man and the Russian sailor. May have been in and out of the country several times, probably multi-lingual, of course most of us are, but I’d look for someone with a familiarity with Eastern Europe. Let’s go back to the Yard and look into the online databank, shall we?”

Sherlock sped back to the police car as though Lestrade were his personal chauffeur, and John, after a last, speculative look at the body, followed him.

Anderson and Donovan looked after the two of them, neither looking pleased. Lestrade left them with some final orders, flagged a uniformed officer, spoke briefly to him, and turned toward where John and Sherlock waited. To his mild surprise, Sherlock had John by the collar, clenching the material with both hands, pulling him close, his forehead pressed to the shorter man’s forehead.

“Never!” Sherlock was saying gleefully. “Never, never, never, never, never!!”

Oddly, John seemed to have a hint of a wry smile on his lips.


	5. Vamplock Ch 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock are starting to rather get along. But John must always remember who is in control.

Back in Lestrade’s office, Sherlock doffed his coat and planted his expensively-clad and, John noticed for the first time, surprisingly plush arse –

“Why thank you, John.”

\--in Lestrade’s chair.

“Oh, well, help yourself,” Lestrade remarked irritably, but Sherlock merely gave a slight smirk and started tapping away at the computer. Lestrade sighed and stood looking about for a moment with his hands on his hips. Then he ran his fingers through his silver hair and turned to John.

“Like some coffee?”

John brightened. “Oh, love it. Any place I could get a bite, too?”

“You had a sandwich two hours ago,” Sherlock informed him, and John merely sent up a riffle of about six images, all of which featured Sherlock sucking blood out of one or another part of John’s body.

“There’s a canteen downstairs, come on,” Lestrade said.

John turned to Sherlock expectantly, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. “In my coat.”

John fished out Sherlock’s wallet and withdrew some cash. _I feel like a--_

“Concubine?” Oh, there’s that woodsmoke.

John clamped down on his irritation. “Sugar?” He asked. Sherlock hummed, and the two humans left the room.

Sherlock heard Lestrade’s mind say _Funny, these two,_ as they exited, and suddenly his fingers paused on the keyboard. It occurred to him only then that the whole time he’d had John at his side, no other human’s thoughts had intruded on his mind. It had been… peaceful! Oh, he could see and smell and hear everything from John, but focusing on him made all the others fade.

Sherlock paused in his search of the Ministry of Defence’s online database of vampires. Was this a desirable development? He contemplated. It depended whether John’s presence actually produced a filter Sherlock couldn’t cut through. If John was actually blocking him, that could present some difficulties. If it was simply more of a cushion that allowed Sherlock to focus, one he could cut through at will, then it was a blessing of the first order.

He would explore that when John and Lestrade returned, Sherlock decided, and resumed sorting the database of vampires by height, passport activity, and known linguistic ability. Soon he was left with about 2,000 possible suspects, most of whom were women due to the height restriction. Well, it could be a woman.

But statistically, it was likely a man, so Sherlock sorted the findings further such that the men came first. That narrowed it to about 600. Still enough to keep it interesting, he was pleased to note. Ten thousand vampires in England were rather too much even for the pleasure of the chase, but 600, yes. That was sporting.

John and Lestrade returned. John put a black coffee with two sugars (perfect) in front of Sherlock, and then settled in a nearby chair with his own coffee and a slice of thick, cheesy microwaved pizza that could only be truly enjoyed by a soldier who had spent years on government-produced rations, unheated. Sherlock winced to see it.

Remembering his earlier concern, Sherlock let his mind listen for Lestrade’s thoughts. coffee, he’s drinking coffee, Sherlock’s drinking coffee, never in the five years I’ve known him have I seen him drink coffee I didn’t even know he could, whaddya know, two days with John and Sherlock’s drinking coffee, next thing you know he’ll be getting a decent haircut-- Bored, Sherlock tuned his antenna to John and enjoyed the scented-candle-like aura of John’s pleasure in his pizza. It was a bit tinged with cheese, but it wrapped around Sherlock’s mind and let Lestrade’s mumbling fade away again. Excellent.

Of course, humans can be irritating by mouth, too. “I didn’t know you drank coffee,” Lestrade said.

“You never offered.” Sherlock told him pointedly, and took a sip.

Lestrade looked a bit guilty, and came around to look over Sherlock’s shoulder. Then he let out a cry. “Oh, bloody hell, no, no, you didn’t!! Oy, Sherlock, you’re doing that with MY COMPUTER. I don’t have the clearance for this, how did you even get in there, you know they can trace the IP, someone’s probably already on their way over right now, you’re going to get me killed!”

John perked up and watched, but kept eating his pizza.

Sherlock sat back. “We both know you are not going to be killed.”

“Who is on their way?” John asked.

“The most dangerous vampire you’ll ever meet, and not my problem right now,” Sherlock breathed, scrolling up and down through his Top 600.

Lestrade was pacing. “Every time you do something that draws him here, he looks at me like I’m to blame. Sooner or later he’s going to—“

“He’s going to do something, yes indeed,” Sherlock said wickedly.

Lestrade looked mortified. “That’s not even funny.”

It is to me, Sherlock thought, but he said only “Just tell him it was me.”

Lestrade dropped into a chair near John. “You see this gray hair?” He pointed at Sherlock. Sherlock ignored him and kept scrolling back and forth, looking for something, anything, that would mark out one of these vampires as the one most likely to be somehow involved in the murders of two men down in the shipping district, both from Eastern Europe, neither killed in a manner one would expect from a vampire.

John turned to Lestrade. “What’s this about people being hanged, then?” He asked, finishing his pizza.

“Oh, that’s unrelated to this,” Lestrade sighed, gesturing toward the computer where Sherlock continued to concentrate. “We’ve had three hangings and really, they could be suicides.”

“Wrong,” Sherlock murmured, never taking his eyes off the computer. “Oh well. I’ll just print these, then, and we’ll be going.”

“Oh, thanks, let me face him alone,” Lestrade muttered.

“Just giving you your privacy,” Sherlock answered, turning toward the printer that began spitting out page after page of identification photos. There were only 25 on each page, so Lestrade watched most unhappily as Sherlock printed 24 pages of glossy photos.

“Not funny…. OH for God’s sake, Sherlock, you had to print them in color? In color, really? Do you know how expensive the ink is? We have a budget!”

Sherlock gathered up the papers and came out of Lestrade’s chair with lithe grace. “Send the bill to the Ministry of Defence,” he advised, handing the pages to John and slipping into his long, black coat.

“Right,” Lestrade sighed, going to stare out the window and down at the sidewalk. “Oh, God, here he is.”

John peeked over the detective’s shoulder to see a sleek black car pulling up to the curb.

“Mm.” Sherlock grabbed John by the arm and tugged. “We’ll take the stairs.”

 

 

“Pay the cabbie, John,” Sherlock instructed, billowing out of the cab and to the front door of 221 Baker Street.

_How do you know I have the money?_

“Because you took it all out of my wallet.” Sherlock called, opening the door. Guiltily, John paid the cabbie and followed the vampire inside.

“MRS HUDSON! We’re home!!” Sherlock called, and went up the stairs. Mrs. Hudson peeked out her door and saw John.

“Oh, there you are dear, have a bit of an outing? I put the sheets back on your bed for you,” she said.

“Thank you—“ John began.

“Just this once, dear. Not your housekeeper.” She smiled and retreated.

In the flat, Sherlock was just disappearing up the stairs toward the spare bedroom (John wasn’t sure if it was “his” bedroom yet or not.) “John,” he called down, “Do make a fire.”

John glanced over at the fireplace. Alright. Kindling. Stack the wood on end. Long matches, very nice. He sat back and admired his fire for a moment and then glanced up at the mantelpiece and was on his feet in a flash. Was that a skull?? How had he not noticed a skull? Good God, whose skull was that??

Sherlock came back down the stairs to find John looking ready for flight, staring at the skull in horror. In his mind’s eye, John was seeing two skulls, side by side. Why would that be, whose skull was the second… Oh, it was his own. He thought… right. Ridiculous. Well, no, not really ridiculous. Victor had been his previous thrall, Sherlock supposed you could say, in a manner of speaking. Long, long ago.

“Sentiment,” Sherlock explained, and John gave him a harrowed look.

_Monster._

“Oh, don’t be tiresome. Here, watch the telly,” Sherlock told him, locating and offering the remote control before disappearing into his own bedroom to change into dark silk pajamas with a matching robe. He returned to the sitting room – John was banging around in the kitchen -- and settled down by the fire to flick through the pages of his 600 vampire suspects. I always miss something, he thought.

Darkness fell on Baker Street, and the two men in the flat settled into a fairly domestic scene. To distract himself from brooding over the day that his own skull would decorate Sherlock’s mantel, _(He can use us for bookends)_ John popped some popcorn on the stove. He enjoyed doing it the old-fashioned way, with oil and butter and salt, shaking the pan back and forth and then dumping the greasy kernels into a bowl.

Then John sat down on the couch and watched the telly. He flicked through the channels till he found a good, mindless shoot-em-up and ate his popcorn while he watched. Really, it wasn’t so very different from life two nights ago, he supposed. Not so bad. Nicer flat, actually, if you didn’t mind the dark colors and that wild black and white Victorian wallpaper. John rather liked it. Curtains drawn over the wood nailed covering the window he’d smashed his first day here (probably it was his responsibility to get that fixed. He should ask Mrs. Hudson tomorrow who was her repairman. _Do I have to pay for this? Probably._ ) Fire glowing in the fireplace. Incredibly beautiful, silk-clad vampire basking in the light of the flames, the orange glow flickering off his bony face and long, elegant frame. Well, John supposed he could get used to anything. It didn’t seem like his personality had been wiped out yet. He glanced at the skull. _Maybe it’s gradual._

Sherlock’s lips twisted as he tried not to smile. For some reason, even John’s more foolish musings were entertaining to him. There he sat, in his button down shirt and a pair of jeans, feet planted solidly on the floor, short hair brushed neatly across his forehead, earnestly staring at the telly and trying very hard not to think of the loosened restraint in the bed upstairs (already re-attached, you’ll find, John) and the riding crop on the window frame, and the skull on the shelf, and the black box in the cupboard. Oh, you are just delicious.

Sherlock settled the papers into a pile, and came to join John on the couch. Without ceremony, he dropped a pillow on John’s lap, lay down on his side, put his head on the pillow, and wrapped John’s left arm around his shoulders, bringing the other man’s fingers up to his mouth.

John hesitated a moment, and then shifted so he could access the bowl of popcorn with his free hand, and continued watching the telly and eating his popcorn. What else could he do, really? Sherlock curled himself up comfortably and nibbled on John’s fingers while John nibbled on the popcorn. Literally. John gradually became aware that Sherlock was slowly, absently mindedly, dragging his fangs over John’s fingers, drawing a drop of blood or two, licking it closed, and doing it again.

_He’s snacking on me._

“Just a little,” Sherlock mumbled, caressing John’s fingers with his tongue. John had to admit that it didn’t feel really all THAT unpleasant, so he shifted a little and then determinedly refocused on the telly.

The fire in the fireplace slowly burned down, and John’s head gradually drooped back on the sofa. Sherlock, of course, was wide awake, waiting to see if John was going to accept that their sleeping arrangements were to share Sherlock’s bed, or if they were going to go through another night of “Oh, I’ll sleep upstairs.”

Eventually he couldn’t stand the suspense anymore, and turned to John, waking him up.

“I wasn’t asleep,” John said immediately.

“I think we should go to bed, nevertheless,” Sherlock said in his huskiest voice.

John blinked. “Right. I’ll just clean up—“

Sherlock waited on the couch and listened for John’s thoughts as the other man took a quick shower. Not like last night. Tonight his mind was clear and unconcerned. The smell around his head was… clean sheets, fresh air, a hint of the woods… hm… John associates woods with freedom. He thinks he’s going to have some freedom tonight. He tampered with the restraint… ah. He’s going to request a night in his own room. He’ll lie down as docilely as you please and let me tie him, and when I’ve gone to sleep, he’ll undo himself and… but is he planning to escape or does he just want a night to feel “free”?

Sherlock retrieved the riding crop from over the window frame and took it up to John’s room, sliding it under the bed out of sight.

Then he returned to the couch and waited for John to reappear in his striped pajamas, toweling his hair.

“Uhm. I’d like to sleep upstairs tonight, if you don’t mind. It’s just… a good night’s sleep, you know, not… not waking up at all. Pretty knackered.”

“John, did you have a pleasant day today?” Sherlock asked attentively.

“… I did.” John said, nervously bunching the towel in his hands.

“Not feeling so much like you want to jump off the roof?” Sherlock lifted his eyebrows, meaning to look solicitous.

John looked a little embarrassed. “No—“

“Not planning to try and slip away during the night?”

“No, nothing like that—“ John’s mind didn’t contradict him. “—just… a quiet night, you know, that’s all. Bit of privacy.”

Sherlock came to a decision. “Very well. Up we go then, and I’ll tuck you in.”

John took a deep breath and led the way up to the spare bedroom. He hastened to turn down the sheets himself, being careful not to disturb the position of the upper left restraint, Sherlock noted with amusement, but he kept his face neutrally polite.

“Facedown tonight, I think,” he said to John, and the other man looked uncomfortable, he was determined not to struggle because, of course, he thought that restraint was still unhooked at the base of the bed. Oh how Sherlock loved little surprises. He watched in satisfaction as John lay down on the bed and spread himself out obligingly. Sherlock hooked his ankles first, and John glanced over his shoulder at them uneasily but didn’t protest. Yes, you think you’ll be able to undo them later, so why make a fuss now, correct? Then Sherlock guided his right wrist into the restraints and fastened it firmly, saving his surprise for last. John obediently offered his left wrist, and Sherlock strapped him in snugly.

“Do you want the pillow under your head or does that prop it back a bit too much?” Sherlock asked considerately.

“Um… don’t really need the pillow, no.”

Sherlock tossed it aside and sat down beside John, sliding one hand up under the other man’s top, caressing his back. “I think we should talk a bit now, John.”

Very softly, that humming sound that signified unease started up in John’s head. Yes, you have a guilty conscience, don’t you? Sherlock mused.

“Don’t get me wrong, you’re doing quite well. And very helpful to me, too. In unexpected ways,” Sherlock traced patterns on John’s back with his fingertips. “But I am responsible for you. Responsible for teaching you how to be my thrall, responsible for training you. And I’d be remiss if I let you develop bad habits so early in our time together.”

Humming got louder.

“Lying, for instance.” Humming getting very loud now, and the air smelled like mothballs. “You lied to me, John. Well, you didn’t actually lie, you simply hid the riding crop, hid the collar, and unlatched this restraint right here, didn’t you now? Why don’t you give it a tug.”

John yanked his left arm in fright and Yes, that’s right, you are very securely fastened once again. John began breathing very heavily.

“So that’s three. Now. You’ve been cooperative in all other regards so I can only assume these incidents of deceitfulness have more to do with fear than any deliberate, willful interest in being defiant. Clearly the best thing a responsible vampire could do is mix your punishment with a bit of reassurance. Let you know that there’s really nothing so terrible in restraints, or collars, or even riding crops, but at the same time, make it clear that there certainly could be if I were to decide you needed severe correction.”

John was practically fainting under his hand. Sherlock pushed his pajama top up until it was around his neck. “Really, I should have taken this off you before I strapped you in. Or I could tear it off now, but I think these are your favorite pajamas, aren’t they, and I’m not that sort—“ Sherlock assured him. “Just lift up a bit and we’ll get this out of the way, yes, there we go, that’s better. And these bottoms, same thing, just lift up the bum. Lift it up. Up we go. There.” And John was bared from neck to knees, and what a fine sight it was. Such a tight little bum. Sherlock gave it an appreciative pat and then bent down and retrieved the riding crop from under the bed.

“Now.” Humming at deafening level, air rank with the smell of mothballs. No woods now, mm, John? “Let’s start with the riding crop. Clearly it makes you very uneasy. I suppose I shouldn’t have sliced open the chair with it. But the fact is, it’s only as fearsome as the arm that directs it,” Sherlock lectured, and began tracing the riding crop over the muscles of John’s upper back. “This for instance. This doesn’t hurt. Neither does a little tap—“ and Sherlock gave the lightest of taps to the muscles between John’s shoulderblades. Literally, he lifted the crop a mere hands-breadth and let it bounce off the other man’s skin.

“Didn’t hurt at all, did it?”

John didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on the wall and he was clearly bracing himself for agonies untold. How funny.

Sherlock began tapping the muscles lightly on the bound and stretched body beneath him, keeping all the taps in the thickly muscled areas of the shoulders. Very light. Just enough to stimulate the skin and put a bit of pressure on the muscles beneath. Very regular. Tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap…

Done correctly, it feels like a massage, Sherlock knew. The trick is to warm the muscles up first with the lightest of touches, and then, when they begin to relax and the skin turns a bit pink, one draws back a bit further and lets the taps fall a bit more firmly. Steady, steady, regular, firm, follow a gradual pattern that the recipient can trace and anticipate. No surprises. Tap tap tap…

Gradually the humming lessened, although it didn’t disappear. The sharp smell of mothballs gained a sweet, lemony overlay, and John relaxed under the crop. Even as the blows gained the barest hint of a bite, his muscles softened and his eyes drooped. The humming changed pitch. Lower.

Sherlock stopped tapping and leaned over to caress the pinkened skin of John’s back, soothing it lovingly. It felt very warm to the touch.

“There now, you see? And that’s your back, where the muscles don’t lie evenly, all those bones and ribs you know. What about an area that’s even more heavily padded, hm? Just thick, juicy muscle?” John’s eyes widened again as Sherlock’s hand moved to pet and squeeze that round, snug bum that was just waiting for the crop.

Sherlock took the small wooden chair that sat unobtrusively in the corner of the room and placed it by the bed. He sat down, explaining in what was meant to be reassuring tones, “I don’t want to come at you from the wrong angle. Overhead like that, tendency to land too far to the right. Now then. Note that I’m placing the crop across your buttocks from the side, which makes for an even landing.”

He lowered the crop gently, raised it again, lowered it again, and began the same soft tap tap tap tap he’d used before. But having someone tap vibrations onto the land of erogenous zones, John found, was an entirely different matter. He dug his face into the mattress as Sherlock calmly tap-tap-tapped his way from the top of John’s cheeks to the bottom and back up again. And back down again. Gradually the taps became a little firmer, and John’s head felt as suffused with blood as it did when Sherlock fed.

“Doesn’t hurt a bit, does it?” Sherlock breathed, and then began to administer the kinds of taps that had a bit of bite to them.  
Once the pinked skin was heated nicely, that touch of pain was oddly welcome. John began writhing on the sheets, and yes, of course he was hard as a rock.

“Now this area is known as the sweet spot,” Sherlock informed him in that purring voice, and began working the lower portion of John’s bum over a bit more briskly. The blows landed very rhythmically, just on the edge of pain, and John pulled at the restraints avidly, but the fact that they did not give an inch rather increased his excitement. The humming was now more of a deep, mental moaning, and it wasn’t long before John’s voice was in synch. The air smelled like hot musky incense (still a touch of lemon.)

“Warmed up now, aren’t you?” Sherlock asked knowingly, and now the taps could be characterized as strikes. Not as quick, but definitely firmer. And every one was a wash of gorgeous, painful, pleasure that made John rut against the mattress. But Sherlock was being very careful. There wasn’t even a welt raised, although the skin was quite red by now. The trick was layering.

“Lift that bum up more,” Sherlock commanded, and John complied, his whole groin lighting up with shameful eagerness as the crop landed with a firm but bearable bite across his hot arse. He trembled with the effort of keeping his bum offered up, and was rewarded with several more burning hits that grew a bit more intense with each strike.

“Oh my God,” he breathed, the tip of his cock pushing against the mattress.

“Spread your legs farther,” (John complied breathlessly) “Bit harder now—“

John squirmed madly, loving every snap into the hot muscles of his buttocks. Then Sherlock stopped, and let John dig his hips into the mattress.

“And that, John, was your punishment for tampering with the restraints and hiding my riding crop.”

John drooled into the mattress and lay, feeling the burn on his arse and the heavy, wanting throbbing of his cock.

“I want you to lie there and think about this for a few minutes. And then we’ll finish up with a bit of something to teach you not to hide the collar."

John groaned in anticipation and Sherlock left him there to go downstairs and fetch the collar. He took his time, knowing that John was waiting for more, waiting to be taken a little farther, waiting to be brought to orgasm. My John, Sherlock thought affectionately, sniffing the collar in his hands. It was a perfectly nice collar. Very thick. Black, though. Brown really would look better.

Actually, enjoyable domination and humiliation aside, he really should make John wear it. It marked him as Sherlock’s thrall and ensured no other vampire tried to move in on him. Of course, John being the quiet, unassuming looking fellow he was, it was unlikely that any other vampire would notice him. Only Sherlock had the ability to appreciate that unique brain. Still. Shouldn’t take chances. What to do, what to do.

Deciding that John had squirmed in burning, throbbing want long enough, Sherlock returned upstairs and drew up next to the panting man on the bed.

“Let’s just put this on for a while. Just let you see it’s not so bad,” He breathed, and fastened the collar on John very, very tightly. “Yes, it’s a little chokey like this, isn’t it? A little hard to breathe?” John was blinking rapidly, looking like it was difficult to concentrate. “Let me just help you focus.” Sherlock said, and resumed tapping on John’s bum with the riding crop. A series of taps to warm him back up (that was accomplished quickly,) and then a steady slow series of strikes across the sweet spot. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap.

John writhed gloriously under the crop. Occasionally Sherlock instructed him to lift that bum up -- really to prevent him from rubbing his cock on the sheets for a moment, because Sherlock didn’t want him to come yet. Then a barked order to spread those legs wider. And wider yet. Snap. Snap. Snap! Snap! Snap! Sherlock increased the intensity of the strikes until, had they been administered at the beginning, they would have been very painful. But now that John was terribly aroused and deep, deep in subspace, were relentlessly driving him closer to orgasm until finally Sherlock reached his hand under John and let his thrall drive his slick cock against Sherlock’s palm while he laid the last three firm, fast strikes across the reddened arse. John came with a roar and soaked the sheets beneath him. Then he went utterly limp. Sherlock removed the collar, letting him breathe more freely. He received a whimper of thanks.

Sherlock leaned over him. “Are you ever going to lie to me again, John?” He asked.

Faintly, he heard John think _Every fucking night._

Sherlock smiled and went down to the bathroom, soaked a towel in cold water, and then brought it up and draped it across John’s bum.

Then he turned off the lamp, sat down on the chair and waited in the dark, his hands steepled together under his chin.

After a long time, John seemed to float back up to consciousness. Sherlock could feel John coming to, moving a bit, noting that the room was dark and quiet, and that he was still bound spread-eagled and half-naked, and lying in a puddle of sticky cum.

_Tell me he didn’t leave me here like this..._ “Sherlock??”

“Yes?”

John gave a huff of relief.

“What is it?”

John buried his face in the damp mattress, mortification just rolling off him in spicy, wine-colored waves.

“Would you rather sleep downstairs with me?” Sherlock asked innocently.

John nodded.

“Alright then,” Sherlock said, and unhooked the restraints. “Down we go. Probably better, nice dry sheets down there…”

Wordlessly, John straightened his pajamas, discarded the wet towel on the floor, and followed Sherlock with an air of defeat and a bit of a stiff hobble.

As John crawled slowly into Sherlock’s bed, the vampire smiled at him. “Did you know my saliva has an analgesic quality that could completely numb any sore areas you might have?”

“Do tell,” John muttered, wincing into the bed.

“You’ll see.” Sherlock said, snapping the padlock shut on the bedroom door. Then he came forward and took John's hand in his own, and placed it over the bulge in his silk pajama pants. "But you'll have to earn it. I do hope you have an hour or two of life left in you tonight. I hate to waste a well-warmed up arse."


	6. Vamplock Ch 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock's bonding and nesting are interrupted by irritating things, like Mycroft, and whiffs of impending plot.

John awoke the next morning to the sound of Sherlock crying out his name from the living room.

“John! John! Jo-ohn!”

The bedroom door was open, and John rolled naked out of the bed, pulled his pajama bottoms on in one fluid motion, and ran to the sitting room. Sherlock was languishing on the sofa, still in his silk pajamas, and now the blue robe over top of it all.

“What??” John gasped, looking about for danger, wishing he had his gun.

Sherlock craned his head to look upside down at John. “Will you bring me my laptop?”

John clutched the wall for a minute to keep his balance. “What??”

“My laptop. Over there. On the desk.”

John blinked several times and finally was able to focus. His own laptop was on the table next to Sherlock. He nearly exploded.“What… just use mine! That’s what you’ve been doing for two days, using mine! Helping yourself to anything I own, my phone, my laptop, my bank account, my arse, my blood, my thoughts, my life, what is stopping you now?!” He practically roared.

Sherlock continued to look upside down at John, an angle which threw his cheekbones and lower lip into particularly attractive relief. “Your battery is dead.”

For a moment, John could only hang onto the wall and stare. Finally he managed to move.

“Suicide no doubt,” John growled, and marched over to Sherlock’s laptop, on Sherlock’s desk, and brought it to the graceful figure reclining on the couch before retreating into the kitchen.

“And could we have some tea?” Sherlock asked, happily logging into his laptop. Gray, pungent woodsmoke fairly rolled out of the kitchen. He had a sudden vision of a gray cat laying its ears back, wrinkling its nose, and hissing in his direction. But the water ran, and the kettle slammed about, and the refrigerator door opened and closed, and eventually the smoky smell abated.

“Does this mean I can use my laptop?” John called, and Sherlock replied,

“Of course, John, I’d never stop you from using your laptop.”

_Unless of course you want to use it,_ he heard, and mentally agreed that well, yes, of course, unless that.

John passed through the sitting room, retrieved his pajama top from Sherlock’s room, and went up the stairs to find the cord to plug in his laptop. As he moved about, he realized to his surprise that his body wasn’t as stiff and sore as he’d expected. His back felt quite good, actually. Like he’d had a massage. His bum felt a bit bruised, though. He closed the door and then dropped his pants and peered over his shoulder in the mirror to get a look. Oh yes, definitely bruised. And one cheek had bite marks.

Knowing Sherlock’s aesthetic preference for symmetry, John could pretty much guess that the other one was going to get bitten by nightfall. He shook his head. His body was a mass of bruises and marks, his wrists and ankles were abraided, and his muscles were sensitive from being pushed and stretched in unusual directions. But overall he felt pretty good, considering he’d been bound, beaten, bitten, and buggered so many times over the last 38 hours or so. And he was oddly relaxed, for a man in the clutches of a slightly mad vampire. Well, it was hard to be tense when you’d had so many orgasms sucked out of you, beaten out of you, and thrust into you. He was beginning to think the thralls he’d seen in the past were merely exhausted. Stockholm Syndrome just takes a lot out of you.

John came back down the stairs with the cord and plugged in his computer at the kitchen table. He poured the tea, fixed each cup to preference, and brought Sherlock’s to him. Sherlock was concentrating on his laptop and didn’t react, so John returned to the kitchen, got his tea, and settled gingerly on the hard kitchen chair.

_Nice hard chair, just what my battered arse needs._

From the sofa, Sherlock’s baritone voice said, “I know just what your battered arse needs.”

John ignored him and tried to log in to his laptop, but of course, Sherlock had changed the password. He sighed and marched back to the sofa.

“What… is my new password?”

Sherlock shot him a look from under those eyelashes. “Nothing is free, John.”

John gaped at him. “Sherlock… I don’t have any blood left!”

“Oh, nonsense. I’m sure I could find some.”

John clenched his fists in frustration. “I’d like to bite you.” He said suddenly. Sherlock’s eyes brightened immediately.

“Oooh, that’s an idea. You could give me one of those big, purple marks on the neck that uni students always have.” Sherlock set his laptop aside and opened his arms. “Yes, let’s do that. Do that and I’ll tell you your new password.”

John hesitated. Sherlock had performed several erotic, shocking, and invasive acts on him so far, but until now, John had been a passive recipient. One might almost say a victim (one that was getting, admit it, a fair amount of erotic satisfaction out of his victimization, but still). Nothing that happened had been of his instigation.

Now, though, here was Sherlock, warm arms open and waiting, and John was going to lie on top of another man (and a vampire) and put his lips on that long, long neck, and suck it like he was on a date. Well. He thought of Mrs. Hudson and France.

“Come, John. I know you want to update your blog.” Sherlock tempted him, and John gave in with a sigh.

He sank down on Sherlock, who gathered him in, drew John’s head to that elegant throat, and gave a hum of contentment when John threw caution to the wind, opened his lips, laved Sherlock’s neck with his tongue, and began sucking on him. John slipped a hand behind Sherlock’s neck, and another around his slim waist, and settled in comfortably. Sherlock spread his legs and drew his knees up, letting John sink between them.

For several long, warm moments, Sherlock merely undulated beneath John, pressing his head deeper into Sherlock’s neck as he murmured encouragement into John’s ear.

“Oh, yes. Oh, John. My John. It feels so good, do it harder.” John nuzzled in, blood singing in his ears with enjoyment. It did feel good…

Then Sherlock reached down and grabbed John’s sore bum with those large, powerful hands, and began squeezing. Hard.

“Mm. Ow!” John broke away to say.

“Yes, I know it hurts,” Sherlock purred in his ear. “But you have to keep going. Now, John. Now.”

John latched on again and Sherlock squeezed and kneaded his aching cheeks some more, grinding tight against him. John moaned and concentrated on delivering that hickey, even as Sherlock’s fingers dug into his bruises and roughly squeezed and tortured and heated up the sore flesh until damn, damn if he wasn’t hard again and rutting against this damn vampire like a horny teen in the back of a car. GOD those hands were strong. “Give it to me, John.” Sherlock was chanting in his ear. “Suck it. Do it! Do it! Harder! Harder!” And his fingers found that bitemark and pinched and rolled the flesh while John ground his cock against Sherlock’s until they were both shuddering and crying out. They squirmed against each other frantically, hips bucking, until finally they were spent.

“Oh, God,” John cried out, breaking his mouth away from that neck and, overcome by the heat between their two bodies, he rolled right off of Sherlock onto the floor, where he lay for a moment. Then he started giggling helplessly.

“You’re going to kill me. You are. You’ll kill me.”

Sated on the couch, Sherlock stretched and said, “Nonsense. I didn’t even take any blood.”

“Oh, God,” was all John could think of to say again.

“I like to imagine you’re speaking to me when you say that.”

“Oh my God.”

“Yes.” Sherlock rolled off the couch, stepped over John and the coffee table, and swept into the bathroom to shower.

“Wait!” John finally thought to call out. “So what’s my new password?”

“Sherlock.”

John put his hands over his face. Of course it was. _I am an idiot._

“And I am glad of it,” said the voice from the shower.

 

 

Dressed now, and sitting on a cushion, John tapped carefully on his blog, a fresh cup of tea steaming cozily at his elbow, plate of toast nearly finished. Sherlock hovered over his shoulder.

“Did you say that I was the World’s Only Consulting Detective?”

“Uhm… yes… look, I’m not sure what I’m allowed to say. I haven’t posted it yet, this is just a draft. I mean… do I say you’re a vampire?”

“If you like.”

_If I say that, everyone will know._

“Don’t say it if it bothers you. Say you’re my assistant.”

A discontented whiff of rotten bananas drifted under his nose.

“Colleague?” Sherlock suggested. John appeared to consider that. Sherlock nuzzled his neck. “Lover. Slave! Say you’re my sexual slave, my captive of love, my toy, my possession, my—“

“Making it very hard for me to concentrate, here.”

Sherlock pulled away, satisfied with his power, and went back to his laptop. “What did you say about the Russian sea captain?”

John looked over at him alertly. “Nothing yet. I didn’t think we could, I mean, the case isn’t closed yet. The Yard wouldn’t want us disclosing details…”

“Oh, the case is closed.” Sherlock assured him.

“…How?”

“It wasn’t murder. He died of heart failure.”

_Oh, well, we all know what that means._

“No, John, literally. He wasn’t ex-sanguinated. He actually had a heart attack brought on by intense stress and fright. The Yard was investigating it as a murder because of the circumstances in which the body was discovered. Rope, accusing scrap of note, body moved after death, all that. But Molly’s autopsy revealed mere heart attack, so it was simply a case of an unidentified body.”

“Did they identify him?” John asked, chewing on the last of the toast.

“Oh yes. Once they identified the abandoned ship he belonged to. Russian, just as I said.”

“Brilliant,” John mused.

Sherlock preened. “Yes, well.”

“Then I can type up a quick bit on that?”

Sherlock gave an airy, almost Gallic wave of his hand. “Be my guest. Write it up on your little ‘blog.’” 

Ignoring the attitude, John returned to tapping away, leaning in earnestly to concentrate on his tale.

Two hours later, while John was downstairs helping Mrs. Hudson call around to get estimates for replacing the window he’d broken, Sherlock stole over to the kitchen table and avidly read John’s new blog entry. His eyebrows lifted. John had an impressive memory for detail, and had repeated Sherlock’s spiel deducing the Russian concisely, almost word-for-word. Sherlock pored over the description John had written of him. While their sexual escapades were completely left out, anyone reading the blog would quickly discern that Sherlock had beautiful silver eyes, dramatic cheekbones, lips like a Greek sculpture, a “riot of midnight curls” (Good God), and moved through time and space like an elegant, black-clad ghost lit by an inner flame. Clearly, John was in love.

Good.

As soon as he heard John’s footsteps on the stairs, Sherlock snapped the laptop shut and hastily moved to the unbroken window to stare calmly out at the afternoon rain, hands in his pockets.

“They’ll send someone by tomorrow if it’s not raining, and they’re going to deliver a new medicine cabinet. I said I could install that myself,” John said, going into the kitchen to start doing dishes.

“Mmm.” Sherlock responded.

“Um… I have an estimate for the bill. I… didn’t have much money in the bank so it won’t cover it all,” John called out, filing the sink with hot water.

Sherlock gave a dismissive wave of his hand.

John returned his attention to the dishes. _Wasn’t my fault anyway. You had me scared half to death. I thought you were going to eradicate my will, and rob me of my independence. If I’d known all you were going to do was completely destroy my masculinity, my dignity, and my self-respect, along with eradicating my will and my independence, I’d have—_

John stopped and stared in front of him.

In the living room, Sherlock froze by the window, barely breathing, waiting. He risked a glance toward the kitchen, and then happened to look over at the heavy gilt-edged mirror over the fireplace. He saw a man with fear in his eyes. Don’t… don’t… don’t go to pieces, he mentally implored John.

Protracted silence. Sherlock stared at his concerned self in the mirror.

_\--oh well, every woman I’ve ever dated has done pretty much the same…(splash) I think we’re out of milk..._

Sherlock sagged in relief and turned back to the window. Suddenly, the relief vanished as he stared down at the wet pavement and regarded the vehicle pulling up in front of 221 Baker Street. Oh, you sleek black car, harbinger of doom, he thought. On the wings of the dove? No, no, the wings of a vulture, shiny black. Sherlock sighed. The back door of the car opened. The umbrella popped out.

“We’re about to receive a very great honor,” Sherlock sneered, and John came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands.

“What’s that?” He asked.

“The most dangerous vampire you’ll ever meet.” Sherlock unbuttoned his shirt and spread out his collar. “Does my hickey show? Good.”

 

When John opened the door downstairs, he was expecting something quite different from the tall, well-dressed vampire with the rather pinched, sour face waiting politely in the rain. “Can I help you?” John asked.

“You could begin by inviting me in out of the rain,” the vampire said, fixing John with his small but piercing dark eyes.

John stepped back and his guest passed him with the smooth grandeur of a large ship passing a small pier.

“Take your umbrella?”

“Thank you.”

“Sherlock’s just up—“ John gestured and let the man mount the stairs. He had a weary aspect to his face, but slightly irritable. He didn’t seem particularly dangerous, and only partially vampiric. Oh, tall, pale, tailored, and staring, as they all were, but very… bureaucratic somehow. Posh voice, like Sherlock’s…. voice very, very much like Sherlock’s in fact. John frowned. Well, he did like a good mystery.

He entered the flat to find the two vampires ensconced in the leather chairs by the crackling fire. The lamps were on now, and the rain outside gave a rather cozy quality to the scene, except that the two vampires were staring at each other so stiffly.

“Tea?” John offered.

“Please,” said the visitor. John went into the kitchen and poured the tea that he had already prepared. It took him a few moments, but there was only silence from the sitting room. Were they just sitting, staring at each other?

John brought in the tea on a tray and set it on the ottoman between them. Then he retreated to hover nervously near Sherlock’s desk. The visitor ignored him, speaking to Sherlock

“I see you compromised Detective Lestrade again, and drew unnecessary attention to a man who has done nothing but try to help you.”

Sherlock smirked. “How is he, now that you’ve stopped by?”

“He is well, Sherlock. He is as he was before.”

“Mm… but he smells more like chocolate cake every time you see him, doesn’t he?”

The visitor took a cup of tea and sipped it while Sherlock stared coolly at him. Then he turned in his head deliberately (he seemed to do everything deliberately, the way Sherlock did everything with a flourish) and gave John his attention for a moment. “You must be Dr. John Watson,” he said calmly. “I read your blog just now. Very engaging writing. I believe your association with Sherlock Holmes will enhance your visibility greatly, and your rather romantic descriptions will undoubtedly bring more attention to his work as well. Your blog has several comments already.”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said warningly. _Mycroft? Who names their kid Mycroft?_ Now they were both staring at John. Suddenly he got it. _The kind of people who would name their other kid Sherlock, that’s who. Ahhh…_

Mycroft inclined his head politely. “Well reasoned,” he said. “Speaking of siblings, I believe your sister is anxious to hear from you. She posted on your blog.”

John immediately looked around for his cellphone. Where was it. Where was it. Sherlock pulled it from his pocket. “Are you looking for this?”

“Yes, thank you—“ John held his hand out, but Sherlock retained the phone and gave him one of those looks.

“Nothing is free, John.”

John stared at him in disbelief. _We. Have. A. Guest._ Sherlock didn’t move. John threw up his hands in disgust. “Keep it.” He said, turning away.

“Thank goodness,” Sherlock murmured. “I’m exhausted already from your insatiable demands.” He slipped the phone back into his pocket. Mycroft averted his eyes delicately. John gave Sherlock a glare and vacated to the kitchen. He could answer Harry via email (if Sherlock hadn’t already changed the password again.)

John logged into his laptop and checked the blog hits. He was stunned to see there were already over 500. He’d only posted it two and a half hours ago. His previous entries had a nice little average following of around 35, fellow doctors and soldiers who commiserated online from time to time. But this Mycroft was right: his association with Sherlock Holmes was… well, a little perspective here, he told himself. Youtube videos of kittens twitching in their sleep garnered 100,000 hits a day, let’s not let 500 go to your head.

He scrolled down to see the comments. Most were congratulating him on his “new job” (if they only knew). Several were asking questions about the Russian, or about Sherlock. One was indeed from his sister saying “You need to call me!” And then there was one strange one that said “You should watch this,” and a youtube link. Probably spam, John thought, but for some reason, he didn’t remove the comment.

John sent Harry an email, saying that just between them, yes, Sherlock was a vampire, yes, he was trapped, yes, the fellow was a blood-sucking sexual predator, but really it was fine, fine. It was all fine. John smiled a bit, imagining Harry’s response to THAT one. Somewhere between “welcome to the club” and “I’ll kill him if he hurts you,” no doubt. Then he closed the laptop, wondering if he was being rude to hide in the kitchen while a guest was there.

But really, he wasn’t a flatmate, was he? He was a thrall, even if Sherlock didn’t act much like a master, he was a vampire and his vampire kin was visiting, and John had opened the door and brought the tea like any thrall would, and now staying in the kitchen seemed like a correct enough thing to—

“John!”

Damn. John came into the sitting room again.

“Mycroft would like to see the collar,” Sherlock explained. John stiffened utterly and did. Not. Move.

“He doesn’t like the collar,” Sherlock said to Mycroft.

“John,” Mycroft said, turning his head again with deliberate patience, “when a thrall wears a collar, other vampires know not to hurt him. They know he is already claimed. There’s no chance of an ugly and unfortunate accident.”

“Vampires never pay any attention to me,” John said stiffly. And it was true. Before Sherlock, at least, none of them had ever noticed.

“They will now.” Mycroft said simply.

John looked helplessly confused. Why would they?

“Because it is clear that Sherlock would be… lost without his blogger. He does have enemies, you know,” Mycroft added in a tone of soft but meaningful regret.

Sherlock looked like a thunderstorm, but he wasn’t moving, or arguing.

“But…” John stalled, “that collar wouldn’t actually protect me if some vampire wanted to hurt me, would it? I mean, it’s just identification. It’s not protection.”

Mycroft gave another respectful inclination of his head. “That is true. For actual protection, it would be advisable to—“

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said again, and another staredown commenced.

Long silence. John was torn between watching the staredown and just getting the collar (wherever the hell it was… floor of his bedroom?)

Finally, Mycroft said, “He would adjust. He’s adjusted so far.”

Oh, that did not sound good.

“John,” said Mycroft, eyes still on Sherlock. “Get the collar.”

“No.” John said, although he was sweating. His feet seemed nailed to the floor. Mycroft slowly moved his eyes to John, and there seemed to be… almost a flicker of amusement in them.

“I see you are kindred spirits. I shall have to double my surveillance, and modify your clearances, Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson.” He rose to his feet and passed John like a wave of cold water. At the door, he turned. “I am sure we will see one another again.”

Then he exited, closing the door gently behind him. John gave a huge breath, and turned to look at Sherlock, wondering if his defiance had earned him another session of some sort. But Sherlock had drifted back to the window and taken up a case in his hands. Ignoring John, he opened the case and drew forth a majestic, golden brown violin. Bringing it to his chin, he began to play an eerie, rather discomfiting song, and John listened in awe for a moment before he realized that the music was actually very creepy. Beautiful, but... it made the hair on John's neck go up.

_I’ll just go finish the dishes,_ he decided, and went back into the kitchen.

 

It was later that night, when John was sitting on the couch watching the news, that something began to tickle at his brain. Sherlock was reclining with his head on John’s lap, his back turned contemptuously to the tv screen, his face buried in John’s tum. He’d pushed up John’s shirt and was absently nipping spots open around John’s navel, and licking them closed, and nipping them open again. _Are you grazing?_

“Mmm…”

On the news, the newscaster (a blonde woman with a disturbing tendency to wear a great deal of pink) was rehashing the series of hangings that Lestrade had mentioned. There had been four now. The possibility of suicide was being discussed, and a psychiatrist was giving his measured opinion that rainy weather could always be counted on to bring down people’s moods, and those who were already despondent were indeed more susceptible to suicidal urges when the weather was dark and dreary.

“But it hasn’t been any darker or drearier than normal,” John remarked to Sherlock, giving an involuntary twitch as Sherlock nicked open another tiny spot and then lovingly tongued it over again.

“I mean, it is England.”

Absently, John cradled Sherlock in his arms and drew him up more so that the curly dark head rested against his chest. Without realizing it, he held the vampire snug against him.

“Not like it’s Tahiti. Rains pretty regularly, but this isn’t a bad season,” John said.

Sherlock opened John’s shirt and placed his fangs against the bare chest. It was rather fun to see if he could get his teeth into the skin without John actually being aware of it. If he pressed and sucked very carefully, using pressure to numb the area, he might be able to get well in. Then he could clamp down and start drawing hard, the way that always made humans get light-headed and turned on.

“Did… ow. You bugger!” John said, but he cradled Sherlock’s head tighter and gave a pleasured sigh as that pink mouth added to the bruising around his right nipple. He’d discovered that pulling away hurt more, and pressing in closer heightened the erotic sensation. He gazed down at the gorgeous parasite latched onto him, running his fingers over the fantastical cheekbone and down to the corner of those incredible lips.

Sherlock broke suction. “That tickles,” he mumbled, scowling. Then he licked at the wound.

“Yeah, that tickles too,” John murmured down at him affectionately. _I’m so fucked. And I don’t even care._

Sherlock smirked. John’s mind wandered back to his original question. “Did all four hang themselves when it was raining?”

Sherlock nodded. “One was found in a ballpark, one in a shed near a train station, one in a pasture where they keep racehorses, and—“

“They were all outside??” John asked. “Who hangs themselves in the rain?”

“No one, that’s why I told Lestrade he’s wrong,” Sherlock said with certainty. “One more and he’s going to ask for my help. You watch.”

John petted Sherlock’s hair absently. “Do you really think Mycroft is right about the collar?”

Sherlock stared up at John in silence. Then he said, “Yes.”

John said, “Well, I’m not wearing it.”

Sherlock didn’t reply. He snaked his hand up John’s chest and rubbed the bruised nipples, watching John’s eyes get heavy. “Come to bed. Come to my bed, don’t make me do something horrible tonight. Just give up and admit you belong in my bed.”

John heaved a put-upon sigh. “Fine.” He said, and Sherlock’s foot started turning in a happy circle, because those restraints fit on his bed just as well as on the spare.


	7. Vamplock Ch 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's blog is becoming more popular. Does that mean he's going to have to wear that collar?

Happiness is a warm vampire, John decided, lying wrapped up in Sherlock as the pre-dawn rain pattered outside. He’d just spent an hour “getting a ride” -- Sherlock’s term for making John straddle him and work his way slowly down on a thankfully well-lubricated vampiric cock while his hands were tied to a restraint that passed behind Sherlock’s bent legs.

Once John was fully seated, wincing, he could only lean back against Sherlock’s thighs and let the vampire do whatever he wanted to John’s chest and genitals while John squirmed around, impaled and helpless. Sherlock liked pulling John’s legs out from under him so he couldn’t rise back up again, but only sit there speared on that cock while Sherlock pinched and teased, rocked and stroked and then stopped, and invited John to beg if he really wanted this to end. Since John was always in more of a hurry than Sherlock, the vampire took great satisfaction in torturing him till he was desperate, occasionally reaching down to pinch the bitemarks (plural now) on John’s bruised arse. John gave a squeak.

“You make the most amazing sounds, John,” Sherlock murmured, cradling John’s erection with one hand and slapping the shaft with two fingers of the other. He had a technique for that, letting his wrist whiplash so that he could snap his fingers against John’s cock from only a few inches away. It stung more than hurt, and it made John writhe and give sharp little grunts of almost-pain. After a minute or three of that treatment, the skin was so sensitive that the following long, featherlike strokes practically made John howl.

“Who do you belong to, John?” Sherlock asked lazily, releasing the abused organ and getting a painful grip on John’s buttocks so he could lift the other man up slightly and slam him down again.

“You, you, you—“ John moaned, his head lolling back. Sherlock stroked John’s sore shaft with one hand and reached under to tease his perineum with the other.

“How can you show me you belong to me?” Sherlock breathed, moving his fingers back and forth rapidly while John begged at the ceiling.

“Ah God. Please, God, Sherlock, please…”

“How can you show me?”

Finally John cried, “I’ll wear the collar, I’ll wear the collar, just please…”

Sherlock smiled and rewarded him with the steady, firm stroking that finally let him reach an almost violent release.

Now they were cuddled up and listening to the early morning rain. “But only when we’re out and only under clothes that don’t show.” John added quietly. Sherlock just squeezed him tighter. There was a silence, and then John asked, “What was Mycroft talking about when he said that… for protection…?”

He could feel Sherlock breathing into his hair. “If you take a few drops of my blood—“

“Oh, no. Nope. No.” John said immediately.

“—it forms a sort of bond—“

“Yeah, I know what it forms—“

“—that lets us sense data from one another—“

“—forms a psychological dependence on MY part—“

“—even at a distance—“

“—that makes me even more dick-whipped than I am—“

“—so if you were ever in danger, I’d know.“

“—because my brain would basically become your permanent playground.”

“I’m working on that anyway.”

They fell silent for a while, and John felt Sherlock’s hand wander over his body, fingers trailing from bruise to bruise, bitemark to bitemark, and pressing each of them tenderly.

“Looking for unmauled spaces?” He asked.

“Mm. Running out, though.”

“I’m hungry,” John decided, and Sherlock let him go reluctantly.

 

 

It was still so early, the sky had barely begun to lighten. _Is it Tuesday already? I think it’s Tuesday,_ John mused, and flicked on the lamps in the sitting room. He padded to the kitchen in his striped pajamas and socks and started pulling items from the fridge. Sherlock drifted out and opened John’s laptop.

“I just want to see how many hits we have,” he said, and John continued making his breakfast. Sherlock logged on, checked the blog “—1254, really, that many people enjoy your lurid descriptions of how I look going around corners in that coat—“

“I’m heating up a bag for you—“

“Don’t want it.”

“No, I know you don’t, you’d much rather suck it right out of my balls, but you’re going to drink a bag.”

“You are giving me ideas I hadn’t had before, John, thank you. What’s this comment, ‘you should see this,’ see what?”

“It’s probably spam.”

“What exactly is spam…”

“It’s the human food equivalent… of… this… bag.” John fished it out of the pan and dried it off. “Here you go. Come on. Drink up.”

“I hate bagged blood more than ever now that I have you.”

“Suck it down and I’ll give you a chaser.”

“From your balls?”

“Let’s wait on that, shall we? Say, where’s my gun?”

“Under the sofa. John, look at this link.”

“Drink the bag and I’ll look at the link.”

Sherlock sucked the blood down with a shudder and John briskly pushed up the sleeve of his striped pajama and offered Sherlock his forearm. Sherlock latched on quickly, and sucked for a moment, holding the arm with both hands. John couldn’t deny that his whole body responded even to that perfunctory event. It was like he was becoming addicted to the feeling of feeding his vampire. He wanted to stand there and stroke Sherlock’s hair and feed him for hours. This must be what nursing mothers felt like (unless the child was a colicky brat.)

It almost made John feel… powerful. Like Sherlock needed him. Yeah, he was fucked. Well. That only took, what… three days? Three days and he’d gone from an independent man to a completely infatuated thrall ready to give every last drop. Great. He rolled his sleeve back down.

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself and look at this link now.” Sherlock said, turning the laptop toward John. John scooped some eggs onto his plate and sat down to watch the youtube link.

The video was simply a close-up of a woman’s frightened face staring into the camera. There was a rope around her neck. She seemed to be outside, perhaps under a tree. Her hair was damp. It was raining… that was it. It was only about 10 seconds long.

“Uh oh.” John said, leaning away from the computer in dread.

Sherlock took the laptop back and started typing furiously. After a moment, he, too sat back and looked up at John.

“Is she one of them?” John was almost afraid to ask.

“The most recent. A Jennifer Wilson. Husband said she had no reason to commit suicide, and why would she come to London from Cardiff to do it.”

“But I thought they said she was having an affair and maybe—“

“Yes, there was a great deal of speculation.” Sherlock’s hands came up in that prayer-like attitude that meant he’d soon be lost in thought. “Let’s see if I can trace this link…”

“If it’s the murderer, he’d use proxies,” John said, and then began scooping down his eggs as quickly as he could. His appetite was gone, but he had a feeling it was going to be a busy morning.

 

 

An hour later, John’s intuition proved accurate. He and Sherlock were showered and dressed, and had 24 shiny printed pages of glorious color photographs spread out on the floor of the flat in four neat rows of six. Lestrade was on his way over, having received and viewed the link Sherlock texted him.

“Even if it’s unrelated—“ Sherlock was musing, and flicking his eyes rapidly over the vampiric faces on the floor. John was at his side.

“What are we looking for?“

“Don’t know, really.”

Silence fell. Sherlock’s eyes moved in random patterns, making connections, checking mental references, while John moved from left to right in a steady progression that gave each face exactly 2 seconds to make an impression before moving on.

“This one has a degree in Russian literature,” he commented.

“Mm.”

Suddenly Sherlock felt the temperature of the room drop dramatically. It was as if the window (still not fixed) had flown open and the curtains billowed inward on a freezing breeze. And the smell that rose up from the floor was… very odd. Like… Styrofoam. Does Styrofoam have a smell? If it did, it was a white, sterile, chemical odor. Sherlock realized that John had gone stock still and was staring at one particular photograph.

“John. John. Who are you looking at…” No response for a moment. John was frozen and staring down like a pointer dog on the hunt. Finally he said, “I’ve seen him,” and crouched to pick up a sheet of paper. He tapped one particular face. It was a small man with large, wild dark eyes. They seemed almost black. His thin lips had a slight curve to them. His whole expression was disturbing even though it was nearly blank. Just those huge, staring black eyes and that faint, taunting smile.

“James Moriarty,” Sherlock read, and then they both heard Lestrade beating on the door downstairs.

 

 

The three men gathered around the kitchen table. Both lap tops were open. Kettle was on. Lestrade and Sherlock hovered over one, John over the other, and all three looked at the new comment on John’s (1598 hits) blog. Like the other, it said merely “You should look at this.” Sherlock and Lestrade were watching the link, but John was merely staring at the user name with his knuckles in his mouth:

sm.man.stayinalive

“This is a new one,” Lestrade said, and John came around to see, and they all looked at the young man in the noose, his eyes terrified, rain running over his face. The video had no audio; and like the other, it was very short. There was a dark, old, wet brick wall behind the young man. His lips were mouthing “Please help me—“ and then the picture changed to … a shot of London Business School. Finally, a final image appeared: a purple garlic flower.

They all straightened in mutual inhales and looked at each other. That brick wall didn’t look like London Business School.

“No. . . Let’s think. This link is about 20 minutes old,” Sherlock noted.

“How much time does he have?” Lestrade wondered.

John’s phone vibrated. Of course, it was in Sherlock’s pocket, so Sherlock pulled it out and looked at the text from the unfamiliar number. “John, you just received a text that says SIX HOURS. Do you have any idea who this might be from?”

“Well, Gee, Sherlock, I wonder!” John snapped.

“Yes. John. The murderer. We know. My question is, why is he contacting you and not me, not Lestrade. Why your blog? Why your phone?”

Lestrade glanced back down at the user name. “SM Man… Sado-masochism?”

John was almost afraid to say it. “Sebastian Moran.”

Both the others stared at him. He added, “I mean, it may be a coincidence, but that vampire I recognized?” He pointed at the photo they’d set aside on the worktop. “I saw him once with a fellow I knew from Afghanistan. Sebastian Moran. He’d taken him as a thrall and was leading him around like a dog—“

Sherlock’s head tipped back thoughtfully and he stared at John. So that’s why John had had such a phobic reaction when Sherlock first brought him home.

“—and he looked like a zombie, he looked like his … I don’t know, like his soul was gone.” John shuddered. “That’s all. Maybe it’s a coincidence, but—“

Lestrade’s phone rang. “Bloody hell, what now?” He exploded, and turned away to take the call. Sherlock and John spent the moments watching the video again. And again. And again. Six hours.

Lestrade came back quickly, “Child kidnapped right off the street last night. Little girl out with her nanny and the nanny’s kid. Nanny turned her back for a moment and the child was gone. Parents are down at the station now, frantic, and they asked for me specifically.”

“Do you know the family?” Sherlock asked, and Lestrade shook his head. “No. But it seems the child was kidnapped from right outside London Business School. The parents told Donovan to ask for me because I” Lestrade made air quotes with his fingers “would know who to call.”

“I want to interview the parents,” Sherlock declared, and Lestrade headed for the door, when suddenly Sherlock stopped. “Mm. Meet us downstairs in a moment?” He said to Lestrade, who looked a bit conscious, and headed out the door and down the stairs.

“What.” John said, already on edge.

Sherlock went to the cupboard.

“No.” John said immediately.

Sherlock ignored him and pulled the collar out of the box. John backed away, arms out stiff in front of him although of course he knew Sherlock was vampire-strong and this was a fight he’d lose.

“John, there is someone out there who has taken an interest in you.” Sherlock said, and tackled John onto the floor right there in the kitchen.

“Collar won’t keep him off!” John grunted, thrashing as best he could.

“It might, it depends on what he has in mind. And you’re going to be much more high-profile now,” Sherlock wasn’t even breathing heavily as he pinned John’s arms at his sides and sat on him just like a bully on a playground.

He put the collar on John and snapped it closed. Not tight, like before. Just… snug. Then he hauled John to his feet and arranged his shirt collar around it, trying to hide it.

“You can barely see it,” Sherlock said. John gave Sherlock a murderous glare. He reached up to unlatch it but of course, the latch didn’t respond to his fingers.

“Vampire magic,” Sherlock said, and wiggled his fingers in the air “Oooo!”

John was not amused. Orange wood burned.

Sherlock tugged at his own cuffs nervously, and then finally went to the sofa, pushed it away from the wall, and retrieved John’s gun. He snatched John’s jacket off its peg.

“Here,” he said, bringing them both to John and handing them over.

John checked that the gun was loaded and tucked it into the back of his jeans silently. Still not happy. He shrugged into his jacket.

“And here’s your phone.” Sherlock added, handing it over.

John put it in his pocket. Still burning.

“Here’s the keys to the flat.” Sherlock handed over his personal set of keys. John took them and looked at him. “Here’s my wallet.” Sherlock handed the wallet over. “Here’s MY phone.” Sherlock handed over the phone. “Here’s a banana.” Sherlock grabbed a banana from the worktop and offered it.

The smoke dissipated and John gave Sherlock a shaming look, and tried not to smile.

“You might get hungry.” Sherlock said. “You’re always hungry.”

“I wonder why. Alright, prat, let’s go. Lestrade’s waiting.” John sighed, putting keys, wallet, phone in whatever pockets he could (take the gun, leave the banana). Then they went down the stairs. John pulled at his shirt and jacket collar, trying to hide the bit of black leather, but as soon as they were on the wet sidewalk, he saw Lestrade’s eyes take note of it and then turn away quickly.

“Don’t feel left out, I have a feeling you’ll have one of your own soon,” Sherlock murmured as they got in the car.

“Don’t… don’t say that,” Lestrade sighed, turning the key.

 

 

Donovan and Anderson watched from their desks with interest as Lestrade, Sherlock, and John cut quickly through the cubicles of New Scotland Yard and disappeared into Lestrade’s office.

Inside were the distraught parents, and the nanny, and the nanny’s child.

The two sergeants watched with amusement through the wide office window as Lestrade shook hands with the parents, and made various introductory gestures toward Sherlock. Even without sound, watching Sherlock Holmes try to interact with strangers was always entertaining.

The parents were well-heeled types, understated but expensive clothes, faces drawn and wretched. The nanny seemed to be Middle Eastern, and was wearing a hijab, but no veil. She wasn’t very old, and she looked petrified. The child on her lap, a curly-haired tot with a runny nose and huge dark eyes, could have been either male or female. It looked to be about 2 and was gnawing on some red rubber toy.

Sherlock was standing very erect, and looking at the child as if it were a snake.

“Oi, I bet he’s great with children,” Sally Donovan breathed sarcastically, and Anderson snickered in agreement. They continued to watch as Sherlock appeared to ask the parents several questions, rapid-fire, and then stiffened in disgust and turned away impatiently as the mother burst into tears and the father clenched his fists and shouted something.

“That would be very ambitious of you,” Anderson mimicked, and both Sergeants snorted as Sherlock appeared to mouth just that at the same time. The distraught father took his wife in his arms and moved her over to the window overlooking the street, away from Sherlock.

Inside the office, Lestrade was doing his best to smooth things over while Sherlock boomed impatiently, “How can I question a 2 year old, it can’t even talk!”

“Sherlock, it can talk,” Lestrade said, and then nearly slapped himself in the face for calling the child “it.” He turned to the mother. “I’m sorry, you have such a beautiful little…boy?” The young mother merely stared at him wide-eyed.

“She doesn’t speak English.” Sherlock said in clipped tones. “Oh, wonderful.”

He stared down at the child and tried again. “Child. Tell. Me. What. You. Saw.”

Lestrade looked at Sherlock, who snapped. “Well, it might speak English, if it was born here. We have whole immigrant communities where the parents can’t understand their own children.” Sherlock looked down at the child again from his lofty height. “What. Did. You. See?”

Suddenly, the tot took the rubber toy from his wet lips and mumbled “Bloofer Aidy.”

There was a silence. John, lurking well back from the others, hands in his pockets, tipped his head thoughtfully. Sherlock took a breath and went off. “Well, there you have it. Blue Friday. The case is solved. The child was abducted by an alternative punk rock band. Did they have guitars?” He snarled.

_Wait,_ John moved forward.

“Did they have Mohawks? By chance did they drive a van with painted pictures on the side that we might be able to identify?” Sherlock continued sarcastically. “Can you hum a few bars of their latest hit?”

“Sherlock,” John murmured reprovingly, and passed him to drop to one knee in front of the child. He held his hands out and cast a questioning look at the young mother, who set the child on its feet and let it toddle to John.

“Oh god, John, don’t touch it. It’s got… fluid coming from its nose. How disgusting. Why do people breed so indiscriminately, creating these sticky little creatures that leak from stem to stern…”

_Will you shut up??_

“Hey,” John said gently to the child, and tapped the red toy. “What’s that?”

“Twine.” The child muttered, admiring his toy.

“Oh, yes, it’s a ball of twine, how silly of us—“ Sherlock sneered from above.

“Train?” John asked, studying the rubber toy. It was shaped vaguely like a train.

The child nodded. “It’s a pretty train,” John said encouragingly.

“Bloofer twine.”

John tipped his head again, puzzled. The child patted the train. “Pitty twine. Bloofer twine.”

“Beautiful train—“ John breathed, and the child nodded adamantly.

“Sweetie, who took your friend away?” John asked softly.

“Bloofer aidy. Bloofer aidy in wyte.”

“A beautiful lady in white?” John asked. The child nodded again. “awwww wyte.”

Behind him, Sherlock and Lestrade had developed a sudden, respectful silence.

“Where did the lady go?”

“Up.” The child said simply.

“Up into where?”

“Twee.”

From the window, the father came suddenly away. “This is nonsense. How would the lady go up into a tree?”

Sherlock took a deep breath and turned to him. “Well, let’s see. Maybe she was an angel. Oh wait, there are no angels. Maybe she was an acrobat! Oh wait, there are no traveling circuses in the area. Maybe she was a vampire. Oh wait… we do have vampires in London, now don’t we?”

_Bit not good, Sherlock. Their child is probably dead._

“No.” Sherlock said, biting his lower lip in frustration. His eyes were distant. “No, I don’t think so.”

Lestrade said, behind him, “Well, do you know any beautiful vampire ladies who dress all in white?”

Sherlock turned his head slightly in Lestrade’s direction. “I do,” he admitted. Then he looked at the father again. “I’ll see what I can do.” Then he turned, took two steps toward the door, and then stopped.

“Wait… wait… oh, of course,” Sherlock turned and pinioned the father with a searing look, his face creasing with bitter amusement. “Why would Irene Adler snatch up your child in broad daylight before witnesses by the London Business School, hmm, Mr. Mackenzie? Why would she do that? What does she want? Has she issued any demands, made any requests, is there something you have that she desires? She doesn’t usually take things by force, but she does take things and she keeps them in general. The only reason she might want something from you is if it was hers to begin with and now you have it. Now, either you don’t know you have it or you don’t have it any longer and can’t return it, but what I’m curious to know is how you got it in the first place and whether your wife knows you visit a vampire dominatrix?”

Outside the office, Donovan and Anderson watched the tableau with open-mouthed fascination. Oh, the human drama. The father had to be physically restrained from attacking Sherlock. John dove in front of him to protect his vampire, “Isn’t that heart-warming,” Sally murmured. The mother then had to be restrained from attacking her husband --- Lestrade was doing his best but she was very agitated and had apparently learned a few martial arts moves at some point. The nanny was huddled with her child behind Sherlock, apparently figuring the safest place was behind the vampire.

“It’s better than Coronation Street,” Anderson breathed, as Sherlock swirled out the door, energetically texting on his phone, and John followed quickly behind, shaking his head.

Inside the lift, Sherlock breathlessly hit SEND and off went the message “Irene Adler” to the mysterious number that had warned SIX HOURS.

Then he gave John’s phone back to him. They stared at each other. Then Sherlock grabbed John’s face and pulled him in for a long, deep kiss. When he finally released him, they both had blood on their mouths. Sherlock licked his lips and then cupped John’s head and licked his as well.

“I like you in that collar. I think it’s going to have to stay.”

John was breathing heavily. “I’d rather have brown.”

“Fine, we’ll go shopping after we get home and check your blog.”

"Fine."

“Wait till I show you Irene Adler’s web page. You’ll enjoy typing this one up,” Sherlock added as the lift doors open and they stepped out side by side.


	8. Vamplock Ch 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wants to form a deeper bond with John. John, however, has trust issues, and for damn good reasons.

Work Text:

Sherlock and John strode out of New Scotland Yard, and Sherlock was hailing a cabbie when John felt a buzzing in his pocket. He checked his new text message.

“Uhm… Sherlock?” He said. _I don’t think we’re going home just yet._

John held up his phone. Their mysterious correspondent had texted a reply to the IRENE ADLER message: it was an address. Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and glanced at it.

“We need to show this to Lestrade,” John said, and turned without a second thought, heading purposefully back into New Scotland Yard. He was halfway to the lift when he realized Sherlock wasn’t behind him. He turned in time to see the vampire disappear into a cab and slam the door. There was no question in John’s mind but that he’d memorized that address in a flash and was now going off to confront a murderer alone.

“SHERLOCK!!” John yelled, running back out onto the sidewalk. But the cab was disappearing around a corner. John didn’t know how far his thoughts could travel, but he glared in the general direction Sherlock had vanished and thought as loudly as he could _I’LL KICK YOUR ARSE!!_ Then he turned, ran back in, and barreled into the lift.

Back upstairs, there was mild pandemonium. People seemed to be going in several directions at once. John had to dodge milling officers to reach Lestrade’s office, only to find Lestrade heading down the hall toward the exit. John ran after him.

“Our Stayin Alive Man, he texted me an address,” John called, and Lestrade paused just long enough to whip out his cell and show John the same address.

“He texted us all,” Lestrade said grimly, and the two men headed down to the carpark.

“Sherlock took off without me, he’s going there alone,” John said.

“Well,” Lestrade managed as he yanked open the car door and slid in, “I know you’re worried, but Sherlock’s a vampire. He’s pretty hard to kill.”

John jumped in the passenger side and braced his hand on the dash as Lestrade slammed the car into gear and peeled out of the carpark.

“How hard,” he asked uneasily as they maneuvered through traffic. All around him, unmarked police cars were pouring out of New Scotland Yard and a wave of sirens seemed to have taken over the Boulevard. It was like being in a very fast parade.

Lestrade shook his head. “To kill a vampire, you pretty much have to drain every last drop of blood in them, or burn them to a crisp.”

“But he could bleed to death? Like if he were shot?” John asked worriedly, and Lestrade shrugged, glancing in the rear-view mirror.

“Technically, I suppose, but they usually heal up before they bleed out.”

“What if he were shot through the heart?” John persisted.

“What heart?” Lestrade said with a bark of laughter. John didn’t laugh, suddenly thinking of Sherlock wrapped around him that very morning. Lestrade didn’t notice. He was punching text into the GPS unit, shouting orders into his radio.

In minutes, the police cars converged on a dead end street flanked by several crumbling, abandoned looking brick buildings. They were accompanied by a phalanx of News Team trucks, and most of the uniformed police were too occupied trying to contain the reporters to do anything more than set up a parameter. Apparently the police weren’t the only ones who’d received a text inviting them to come visit a murderer.

“Jesus,” Lestrade said in disgust. “We don’t even know what we’re looking for.”

John stood beside him, glancing around. Police, detectives, and reporters everywhere. No cab. No Sherlock. For a moment he didn’t know what to do. Then he tried simply mentally calling out.

_Sherlock! I’m out front with Lestrade! Where are you? Sherlock?!_

Within a minute, there was a general commotion from the News Teams, and the cameras all suddenly trained on the tall, black-clad figure that swept around the corner of the farthest building with a slight, sardonic smirk on his bony face. He lifted a hand and beckoned to the police, and turned back.

The police couldn’t really contain the surge from the reporters, and the entire motley entourage flooded around the corner to the vacant lot behind the crumbling brick buildings where a blindfolded young man with a noose around his neck sat on the wet ground, leaning against the bricks, hands apparently tied behind his back. The rope was limp on the ground at his side, and the cameras recorded (some live) as Sherlock Holmes--World’s Only Consulting Detective--was quickly joined by the fine detectives of New Scotland Yard, and they knelt around the victim, removed his blindfold, and ascertained that he was alive, and uninjured, but very frightened, and terribly confused.

John hung back and let the police do their work. When the yellow tape was finally set up and the reporters pushed back, medics came to attend the young man, and he was eventually given the Official Orange Blanket of Shock, which even from a distance John could see Lestrade pointing to impatiently as Sherlock stood over the victim barking questions at him.

Finally, Sherlock threw up his hands and looked around.

_I’m over by the fence._

Sherlock paused for a minute to answer a reporter’s question with his usual grace and humility. John winced, just imagining what he was saying. Eventually Sherlock worked his way to John’s side.

“This isn’t over,” was the first thing he said to John. Sherlock glanced behind him at the media circus, up and around at the abandoned buildings. “This is all wrong.”

“Was that how you found him, just sitting there in the wet?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded, chewing his lower lip.

“But he wasn’t sitting in the video…?” John asked.

Sherlock said, “No, he was definitely standing. I could tell by the pipe, “ he pointed to a joint in the pipe running down the side of the wall. They both gazed at the building.

“So what was he standing on?” John wondered, and Sherlock shook his head again.

“Whatever it was, they took it with them. And the victim’s no help. He’s been—“ Sherlock waved his hand impatiently “—dazzled or glamoured or whatever you want to call it. Can’t tell us a thing but that he THINKS there were two of them, and he THINKS they were men, and he THINKS one was a vampire, but it’s all very blurry to him.”

They both stared at the spot where the victim was found.

“Why take the thing he was standing on, though,” John wondered. “I mean, what were the others standing on? Or … what was kicked over… you know?”

“We need to see all the scenes.” Sherlock decided, and putting an arm around John, he pushed the smaller man through the crowd until they finally made their way clear. It took forever to get a cab out of there.

On the ride home, John received one more text from the murderer: I’M ONLY HAPPY WHEN IT RAINS.

 

 

Lestrade sent the photos of the previous crime scenes over by courier, and Sherlock laid them out, much as he had the 600, on the rug. Now he prowled around, scowling down at them. The rain had stopped and the evening was pleasant. Mrs. Hudson had let the repairman in to replace the window while they were out, and he’d replaced the medicine cabinet as well, despite John’s offer to do so. It was nice, John thought, having the curtain open again.

John opened his laptop and checked his blog. “Oh my God,” he said. Sherlock pulled away from the photos long enough to come peer over John’s shoulder.

“We have over 230 thousand hits,” John said in awe. “You’re all over the evening news.” He turned and looked at Sherlock, who did not seem as pleased as one might expect. Without a word, Sherlock returned to studying the photos, and John spent about an hour picking through the comments to see if the murderer had left any new remarks. He hadn’t. In fact, he’d deleted his previous links. There was no trace of sm.man.stayinalive.

John was too tired to update tonight, so he closed the laptop with a snap. Sherlock was still engrossed and uncharacteristically silent, so John made himself some pasta for supper and ate it before the telly. He’d already looked at the photos long enough to see that none of the previous victims had been found dangling over a kicked-over chair or box, merely the rain-soaked earth. John had no further deductions to make and decided to leave it to the professional.

He finished his meal and realized he was still wearing that damn collar. Amazing what you could get used to.

_Sherlock, could you take this collar off?_ Now that was lazy, when you thought at your vampire because it was easier than opening your mouth.

Sherlock glanced over at him, and then back at the photos.

_Sherlock._

No response.

“Sherlock!” We’ll try this out loud. Finally Sherlock lifted his head and gave John a serious look. Oh, no.

“Before I do, John… Do you remember what we discussed this morning?” Sherlock began.

John had an uneasy feeling that he did.

“I want you to take a few drops of my blood,” Sherlock began, and John shook his head.

“It won’t make you into a zombie.”

John crossed his arms and a low hum started in his head.

Sherlock came and sat down on the coffee table so that he was facing John, and they were knee to knee. He leaned forward and directed those beautiful eyes at his human. “Do you trust me, John?” He asked.

John gave him an astonished look, “Do I trust you? Do I trust you?? Let me think about this, hm, this is really difficult. I met you on Friday night when you stalked me through Tesco and scared me witless on the street. Saturday you kidnapped me and stuffed me into a cab. Saturday night you basically knocked me unconscious and … raped me, I guess it’s fair to say. Sunday you told me that if I ever got away you’d take my sister and do God-knows-what to her… Monday, you tied me up and beat me with a riding crop—“

“That was actually Sunday night,” Sherlock muttered, looking away.

“--Do I trust you? You’ve stolen my entire life and – and now you have this collar on me, and I want you to take it off right now. Right now, Sherlock!”

“Take a few drops of blood, and I’ll take the collar off.” Sherlock offered.

“What? No! No, and don’t tell me you aren’t taking it off otherwise because I want to take a shower and have you ever had a wet leather collar on? It’s miserable. I’ll hate you, Sherlock. I’ll really hate you.”

And here comes the burning wood smell. Sherlock sighed and reached forward, his fingers sliding gently around John’s neck as he removed the collar. He dropped it on the table next to him and stared at it broodingly while John rubbed his neck and tried not to feel a warm flood of gratitude and affection.

There was something about Sherlock in profile that was particularly affecting, John found, and looking at his downcast vampire actually made him feel guilty. He put his hands on Sherlock’s knees. “I’ll wear it when we leave the flat.”

Sherlock sighed, still not looking at him. “John… John,” he whispered mournfully, his eyes traveling up to look meltingly off into the distance. They seemed to shimmer as if… were those tears?

John’s stomach clenched. “Sherlock—“ he began, feeling an unfamiliar almost-pain in his guts. _I cannot stand to hurt this creature,_ he realized. Suddenly Sherlock rose to his feet and took a few steps away from John, only to come to a halt as if overwhelmed. He tipped his head back and gave a long, shaky sigh.

John was behind him before he realized it, placing his hand on Sherlock’s warm back. “I’m sorry,” he said lamely.

Sherlock didn’t answer, but merely stood in this heartbroken pose. Occasionally he blinked rapidly as if fighting back tears. John was wallowing in guilt. He tugged at Sherlock’s arm until the taller man turned and wrapped those arms gently around John and drew him close.

“Kiss me,” Sherlock whispered, “please, John.”

Glad to be able to grant a lesser request, John reached up to touch the dazzling contours of Sherlock’s face and offered up his mouth without hesitation. Sherlock’s lips touched his, so soft, and granted several barely-there caresses before gently pressing harder, then sliding and sealing over John’s, and his tongue slid deftly in and began a slow, careful, tender probing that made John both dizzy and eager. The large hands slid up and down his back caressingly, pulling him tighter against his vampire.

“Mmm” Sherlock hummed, and his hand came up to the back of John’s head and cradled it, pressing John’s lips more tightly against the soft, pink mouth above him. It was all John could do to remain standing as the kiss went deeper. Sherlock’s tongue entered him, filled him, stroked his mouth seductively, and John lost any desire to think, or to do anything but kiss back.

Sherlock started pushing John back toward the couch, and with a little smile, John allowed it. They did a slow shuffle back until Sherlock was able to lower John flat on his back and then lay his own warm, heavy weight on top. John groaned and closed his eyes.

Another soft, heady kiss had John opening his mouth wider, relaxing his tongue and throat, and accepting Sherlock’s steadily deepening advances with abandon. It was some moments before John realized that the taste of this kiss was gradually changing. It was growing sweeter, as if their bodies were producing chemicals meant to encourage them to devour each other. That notion tickled John’s mind with faint amusement, because whatever it was, it was working. He wanted to devour Sherlock, he wanted Sherlock to devour him… Oh God, did he want Sherlock to devour him. He pressed his hips up against the other man, thinking that this new, tender love-making was the best yet of all the things Sherlock had done to him.

The kissing went on and on. Sherlock’s tongue would retreat for a moment, and then return, sweeter than ever, deeper than ever, and the lips that sealed over his never broke away for an instant. John could hear Sherlock’s heart beating and knew Lestrade was wrong. He had a heart. It was pounding against John now like a drumbeat that was practically inside John. God, what a sweet kiss. John’s hands clamped on Sherlock’s head and dug into his curls almost desperately. His mouth and throat seemed out of his control, swallowing convulsively and reaching for more and more of Sherlock.

_Never stop kissing me. Never stop… God you could do anything to me right now. I’d do anything for you, anything you want,_ John’s mind mumbled in bliss as Sherlock’s tongue invaded his mouth over and over.

Then Sherlock retreated, and pulled back very slowly, looking down at John with eyes that were not at all tear-filled, or even particularly lustful. They were more … watchful. Assessing.

Assessing.

“What did you just do—“ John said, and the realization hit him. “Oh, God.”

He moved to get up, but Sherlock merely gripped his arms and held him down, his face emotionless as he watched John. John squeezed his eyes closed, still tasting the sweetness on his tongue. So that’s what vampire blood tasted like. Suddenly he heard Sherlock’s voice in his head. JOHN.

He opened his eyes in shock, staring up at the face that loomed over him. Sherlock drew close again, laying that heavy weight on him, pressing him flat. Those lips were nearly touching his again. KISS ME AGAIN, JOHN. OPEN YOUR MOUTH.

John found that he didn’t even want to fight it. He opened his lips and watched in a trance as Sherlock’s full lips parted, and his tongue dragged across one sharp fang, opening a line of blood. And then Sherlock was pressing into him again, feeding him sweet kisses, practically running that tongue into John’s throat, and all John could do was cling to the arms that held him, and suck on the tongue that invaded him, and rock against the vampire that pressed into him, until he was out of his mind with desire.

Finally Sherlock rose, and pulled John up. He led him into the bedroom, and John accepted everything Sherlock did gladly. Nothing was too much to give Sherlock. John was happy to be stripped naked, happy to be pushed back onto the bed, bitten, stroked, mounted, ridden.. He was in utter bliss. Nothing mattered but Sherlock on him, around him, in him, and every thrust was Heaven. Every bite was glorious. He wanted to offer his arms, his neck, everything, everything, and Sherlock took those offerings over and over, biting into him as John groaned with pleasure. Then John was happily sinking. Then he was asleep.

 

Because a vampire with a guilty conscience looks pretty much the same as a vampire with a clear one, no one looking at Sherlock the next morning would have noted anything different. Well, Mycroft would, but Mycroft wasn’t there (thank god for small favors) and Sherlock in his pajamas and robe looked unconcerned as he sat in his leather chair sorting for the hundredth time through the files on the four hanging victims.

But he did keep glancing at the open bedroom door, feeling for John’s thoughts (nothing), scenting the air for mood (nothing), waiting for John to wake up and come out and start grumbling around the kitchen, making tea, perhaps complaining about something or another. But no John.

Finally Sherlock lowered the files to his lap and did an experimental JOHN, COME OUT INTO THE SITTING ROOM.

Immediately he heard movement in the bedroom and John came out, not wearing a stitch of clothing, and no expression on his face. Sherlock blinked a little in surprise. They looked at each other. No thoughts, no mood, no woodsmoke. Sherlock swallowed. GET DRESSED AND MAKE TEA. John turned and went back into the bedroom.

A moment later, he returned fully dressed and went silently into the kitchen to make tea. Sherlock waited a moment.

“John?” He called. John came back in and stared at him calmly. “Are you angry at me?”

John tipped his head a little. “No.”

Sherlock waited, but nothing more was forthcoming. John simply stood there like a… well, a little like a zombie, right?

Maybe he’s having me on, Sherlock thought, setting the files aside. Experiment. GET THE COLLAR AND BRING IT TO ME.

John went to the collar on the table and brought it to Sherlock in both hands. Sherlock sensed absolutely nothing from his mind.

COME SIT ON MY LAP.

John’s face registering a touch of anticipation, and he slid into Sherlock’s lap and gazed at him with intent eyes, still holding the collar. PUT YOUR COLLAR ON.

John’s eyes fluttered as if this order was exactly what he most desired, and he snapped the collar around his own neck, smoothed his shirt over it, and lay his head on Sherlock’s chest in the manner of an adoring pet. Sherlock held him a minute, feeling very uneasy.

LET’S HAVE OUR TEA NOW. John withdrew wordlessly and went into the kitchen.

Sherlock sat very still. What did I do, he thought, and looked up at the skull.

John came back in with tea and served Sherlock blankly, and then lowered himself to his own seat.

“John, if you were walking down a dark alley and a mugger was behind you, what would you do?” Sherlock asked, and then waited for a riffle of images. John’s mind flickered and a feeble, watery image of a dark alley appeared, but there was no riffle, no movement, no smell. Sherlock swallowed. John stared calmly at him.

“What would you do, John?”

John’s eyes drifted past him as if he were trying to think. Nothing.

Sherlock tried a different tactic. “John, can you remember what you saw at the scene yesterday where the man in the noose was found?”

Immediately, to Sherlock’s vast relief, a riffle of images fluttered past. A rather large one. John’s memory was intact. John’s memory was stellar!

Sherlock took a deep breath and decided to approach this alarming situation scientifically. Decision-making processes impaired, memory functional.

“John, how do you feel about your collar now?”

A sweet scent, like a bayberry candle, floated up. “Fine.” John said calmly.

“How do you feel about … football?” Sherlock tried. Nothing. John didn’t even seem able to muster a response.

“How do you feel about your sister Harry?” Nothing.

“How do you feel about the riding crop?” Sudden hot scent of cinnamon and spices.

“I like the riding crop,” John informed him.

“How—“ Sherlock swallowed, “How do you feel about me?”

An explosion of gorgeous smells filled the room, and a deep, warm buzzing. John’s eyes glowed. “I love you! I’m yours.” He said softly, as if he were surprised that Sherlock needed to be informed on this subject.

Sherlock’s stomach did a flip, because to hear John say that would have been wonderful…. If it had actually been free-willed, sentient John. To hear it now, however, was a little mournful.

“But… are you angry I made you feel this way?” Sherlock asked, leaning forward. John stared blankly at him. Sherlock couldn’t stand it any longer and shot to his feet, pacing nervously. John watched him as if looking at Sherlock brought him contentment.

Finally, Sherlock turned and thought JOHN. GO TO YOUR LAPTOP. WRITE UP A DRAFT TO UPDATE YOUR BLOG. DESCRIBE THE KIDNAPPING OF THE LITTLE GIRL, AND THE DISCOVERY OF THE MAN IN THE NOOSE. SHOW IT TO ME BEFORE YOU POST IT.

Instantly John abandoned his tea and went to his laptop. Guiltily, Sherlock took the tea to John and set it by the laptop. “You can drink your tea while you type,” he said, and then went back to his files. But he couldn’t really concentrate. His only comfort was that John was typing away at the kitchen table and had, at least for the moment, the appearance of normalcy.

Around lunchtime, Sherlock called Lestrade to confirm that nothing had been removed from any of the scenes by the police, and no one knew what the victims had stood on before being hanged.

“No, nothing. Listen, can I ask John something real quick?” Lestrade said, and Sherlock hesitated.

“Sherlock? Is John there?”

“Ye-es,” Sherlock said.

“… What have you done to John, Sherlock?”

“Nothing. He’s right here, here, you talk to him,” Sherlock said, and handed the phone to John, hoping for the best.

John put the phone to his ear. “Hello. Yes. Fine. No. (long silence) Okay.”

He handed the phone back to Sherlock and turned back to his writing. Sherlock put the phone back to his ear.

“I am coming over there in 20 minutes and you’d better be ready to tell me what the fuck you did,” Lestrade said flatly, and hung up.

 

 

Detective Lestrade leaned over and looked into John’s eyes. John, seated on the sofa, looked politely back.

“John, how did you feel about how Sherlock handled the interview with that family,” Lestrade asked.

John stared at him as if listening attentively but not recognizing that he’d just been asked a question.

“He can’t form opinions,” Sherlock said, chewing his fingers nervously behind Lestrade.

“John, how would you get to Paddington Station from here?”

John didn’t answer. Sherlock whispered “But he’s picturing the route, I can see it.”

“Why doesn’t he answer?” Lestrade whispered back. Sherlock shrugged. Then he came forward and tried.

“John, tell me how to get to Regent’s Park.”

Immediately John said, “North on Baker Street, cross Marylebone Road.”

“Did he answer because you said ‘tell me’ or because it’s you?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock admitted. “You try it.”

“John, tell me… uhm… how to make pasta.” Lestrade tried.

John looked at him politely but didn’t respond. Sherlock nodded “He’s picturing it. It must be me.”

Lestrade turned away, clearly at loss. “God, Sherlock, what have you done?” He gave the vampire an accusing look. “Look at him, he can’t make decisions, he can’t form opinions, he can’t interact with anyone but you, and even with you all he can do is follow commands. Christ, you’ve turned him into the one thing he most feared!”

Sherlock opened his mouth to defend himself, but Lestrade was on a roll. “This Moriarty fellow, who is most likely our murderer, that’s exactly what he did. He wiped a man’s mind out to turn him into a slave and now you’ve done the exact same thing. How are you different from him, Sherlock? How are you different?”

Sherlock stared at his violin.

“No wonder this fellow is contacting you for his little game. You’re two of a kind. And me, I thought you were different. What a fool I am. What fools all us humans are, compared to you, right? God, I feel sick. He was a good man, Sherlock. You might as well have killed him.”

Lestrade gave one last look at John and left the flat, slamming the door behind him.

Sherlock sank into his chair and stared at John. John gazed placidly back at him.

“Did you finish your blog, John?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes.”

“Can you bring me the laptop so I can read it?” Sherlock found himself phrasing questions carefully and simply, as though to a child. John obediently brought the laptop, and Sherlock had a sudden image of John as he’d been when they first faced one another, standing with his feet braced, his eyes direct and resolute, ready to die. “Hurry up, you son of a bitch,” he’d said.

Where was that man now? This was like a head injury, and it was all Sherlock’s doing. The shame and guilt were getting pretty bad. In fact, it was his first real experience with those emotions in decades, and Sherlock was finding it very unpleasant. And regret, oh… what a horrible emotion.

“Not much cop, this caring lark,” Sherlock breathed, and settled in to read John’s blog. Suddenly he realized John was simply standing at his side, looking blankly at him.

SIT DOWN. John sat. Sherlock sighed and read.

Hm.

His writing was still quite serviceable. Less romantic description but every detail was faithfully rendered. Interesting. Able to observe, remember, report, and obey. Unable to decide, opine, resist, or express. Sherlock wondered if … no, it was probably… yet, no… Oh hell.

JOHN, BRING ME MY PHONE.

It was time to do the one thing Sherlock hated more than anything: ask Mycroft.


	9. Vamplock Ch 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is learning what guilt feels like.

The Diogenes Club was a club for taciturn gentlemen who enjoyed leather chairs, dark carpets, elegant fireplaces, a good pipe or cigar, the latest periodicals, and the silence of equally taciturn men. Mycroft was ensconced in a comfortable world of silence and leather when he received a text from a very rare source.

He glanced at his phone and tried to look put-upon, but the secret truth was that Mycroft was always gratified when Sherlock needed his help. And if he was texting, he needed help. He wouldn’t reach out otherwise.

@DC – he texted back, and waited.

Obviously the problem concerned John. Nothing and no one else had put that look in Sherlock’s eye since the Jazz Age.

When Sherlock arrived, the silent John drifting behind him like a tug boat, they were ushered into the Stranger Room, where speaking was allowed. Not that speaking was really required between the brothers. But it was a courtesy to other members of the club not to expose them to Sherlock.

Mycroft clasped his hands behind him, looked at John, tipped his own head back thoughtfully and uttered a comprehensive “I see.”

Sherlock had by now degenerated to nervous fidgets wherein his fingers seemed to be drumming galloping patterns onto an imaginary surface.

“How much did you give him?” Mycroft inquired delicately.

Sherlock gave an impatient shrug.

“Really, Sherlock, I know your infatuation with excess but I had expected John at least to employ his sense of self-preservation. How would such an untrusting, independent fellow willingly ingest—“

Mycroft read Sherlock’s sidelong glance.

“Ah. He had no idea what you were doing. Bravo, Sherlock. You are truly a Holmes, and my brother in every way.”  
Sherlock closed his eyes and wallowed in misery for a moment, and then glared at Mycroft, who enjoyed it thoroughly.

“The question now, is what can I DO?” Sherlock bit out.

“Oh, there is nothing you can do.” Mycroft said with finality.

Sherlock gave him a look of heartbroken horror.

Mycroft relented. “The first time a thrall ingests blood is rather like a sunburn. It lays a foundation, one might say, but the worst of the effects fade eventually. To truly keep a thrall in this… golden state of rapt adoration and utter subjection, one must administer the medicine quite regularly.”

Sherlock seemed to nearly fall backward with relief. “He’ll go back to normal?”

Mycroft hesitated, “It’s hard to say, humans vary so wildly. But the majority of his freewill and… charmingly obtuse and contrary personality should begin to resurface in 2 to 4 days, depending on the dosage. And of course, providing you don’t overwhelm his system with another deluge every time you have the urge to compel him to offer you sexual favors.”

No, indeed, thought Sherlock. We’re going back to bondage and beatings… anything rather than have this empty shell that looked like John.

That decision made, Sherlock whirled around without another word and headed for the door. COME, JOHN.

“A word of advice?” Mycroft called after him. Sherlock paused, hands against the door. “Be careful what you do to him while you wait for his true self to return.” Mycroft said meaningfully, and added darkly, “He will remember.”

 

There was nothing to do, Sherlock decided as they left the stuffy club and emerged back into the relative brightness of a partly sunny London day, but use the parts of John that still functioned. The parts of his brain, that is. The other parts could wait till nightfall.

Sherlock led John down into the Tube. “John,” Sherlock began, uncertain as to how much of what he now considered The Real John was alive in there, but he enjoyed hearing himself talk, and even in this state John was more convenient than a skull.  
“John, we’re going to go to the crime scenes of the previous four hangings. I want you to help me observe, and when I ask you, report what you see.”

John listened intently, head tipped slightly to the side. That endearing little mannerism had not vanished, Sherlock was heartened to see.

They were soon at the ball park where the first body was found. The gates were padlocked, so Sherlock picked the locks expertly while John stood by, unperturbed at breaking, entering, and trespassing. Sherlock accessed the photographic memory in his head and led John to the spot under the bleachers where the body had been found.

“Now,” Sherlock said, hands clutching John’s shoulders from behind as John regarded the spot calmly. “Tell me what you observe.”

John immediately recited “Bleachers, slightly rusted. Cracked concrete.”

“Right. Well then.” Sherlock breathed, and his own bright eyes danced over the scene, taking special note of the rust and the single crack since they had registered with John. The crack was a long one, slightly wider under where the body had dangled. Pressure? Something heavy? Hm, no… Sherlock studied the rust patterns. Any disruptions? Nooo…..

“John, if you were going to hang someone here, what would you make them stand on that you could then take away without anyone noticing?”

John’s mind conjured a simple wooden box, and Sherlock had to agree that nothing better was forthcoming.

John looked up to where the rope had been tied.

“What are you thinking, John?” Sherlock asked expectantly.

“They didn’t take the rope.”

“No. Interesting. Alright, on to the next scene!”

For this one, they took a cab, as it was rather remote. Sherlock paid for it with Mycroft’s credit card (he likes to be helpful, Sherlock justified). The body had been found dangling from a tree in a pasture. Once again, Sherlock gripped John firmly, and pointed him toward the scene.

“Tell me what you see, John.”

John looked up and down. “Tree. Grass.” Then he tipped his head. “Discoloured grass.”

Sherlock peered over John’s shoulder. “Oh….” He breathed happily. Now they were getting somewhere. The grass hadn’t been discolored in the photos taken the day of the murder. This was A Development! Drawing two baggies from his inner coat pocket, Sherlock plucked out several blades of the discolored grass and placed them in one baggie, and some blades of the regular coloured grass in the other. He gave the discoloured baggie to John. PUT THAT IN YOUR POCKET AND DON’T LOSE IT.

The sun was getting low in the sky and they were in a cab back home when Sherlock noticed that John was looking terribly pasty and hollow-eyed. With another guilty stab, he realized he hadn’t fed his thrall (truly a thrall now, eh?) all day, and apparently John didn’t have the freewill to ask for food. Sherlock directed the cab to a Chinese take-out within walking distance of Baker Street.

Inside the restaurant, John gazed earnestly at the menu on the wall but could not indicate any particular preference, so finally (guilt guilt guilt) Sherlock ordered for him, paid, and dragged him home. All along the way he was certain people were glancing at him and at John and seeing… just another vampire who’d enslaved and brainwashed what had once been a living, alert, viable human. A soldier. A doctor. Now? A mindless pet. Guilt. Guilt. Guilt. And a certain self-disgust for turning into anything so pedestrian as an Average Vampire. Sherlock’s lips curled with self-disgust.

Back in Baker Street, he directed John to SIT DOWN AND EAT, and Sherlock himself set up a makeshift laboratory to study the specimens he’d taken. After several minutes of studying the grass, and the bit of dirt clinging to it under the microscope, all he could truly say was that the grass was indeed slightly discolored. He sat back. Why would the grass be discolored under the body? Urine from the deceased? Unlikely there’d been enough to make such a difference. And that was a pasture, those horses undoubtedly urinated all over the place. Sherlock wrinkled his nose. He wasn’t fond of horses.

He’d have to take the samples to Bart’s tomorrow and analyze them chemically. Meanwhile, John had finished eating and was sitting at his side, head tipped slightly, staring at the table. If one didn’t know better, they’d think he was deep in thought, but Sherlock tuned in and… well, there wasn’t any thought, but John was holding mental images of the cracked concrete and the discolored grass before his eyes as if contemplating them. Sherlock brightened. That was…. Good.

“John, why don’t you tidy up and then check your blog?” He suggested, and went to shower and change into his pajamas. Ordering a thrall around all day was exhausting business.

When he returned, John was sitting obediently at the laptop. Sherlock looked over his shoulder. Oh, my, the Scandal of the Dominatrix Vampire and subsequent Rescue of Intended Victim Number 5 had garnered 679,633 hits! At least a tenth of the population of England was aware of Sherlock Holmes. And the comment section had exploded! Sherlock hovered over John, enjoying the smell of his hair after a day outside. SCROLL DOWN. SCROLL DOWN. SCROLL DOWN. He read the comments lightning-fast. People were actually posting requests for Sherlock to come and solve mysteries for them! How delightful!

“John, find my personal webpage, The Science of Deduction,” Sherlock instructed. John tapped obligingly away at the keyboards, and Sherlock scowled to see that his own website had not a 20th of the following that John’s did.

“Pedestrian minds,” he sneered, and snatched the laptop from John to see if he at least had any emails. He did. One.

“Oh, look a little girl in Devonshire wants me to come and bring the murderer of her pet rabbit to justice,” Sherlock pronounced contemptuously, and John tipped his head politely. Sherlock sighed and snapped shut the laptop. “I wish it would rain,” he said.

Restless, Sherlock spent the rest of the evening sawing at his violin, glowering out at the dry streets, and mentally ordering John about. DO THE DISHES. DO THE LAUNDRY. VACUUM THE RUG. STOP STARING AT ME. GO WATCH THE TELLY. TURN THAT DOWN. DO NOT WATCH BRITAIN’S GOT TALENT, BRITAIN DOES NOT HAVE THE SLIGHTEST BIT OF TALENT, TRUST ME. FIND ANTIQUES ROADSHOW AND WATCH THAT. MAKE POPCORN!!

Finally, he decided to put John to bed. The sooner they slept, the sooner morning would come and he could take the grass samples to Bart’s. Perhaps they could visit the other murder scenes as well. He took the collar off of John and tossed it aside.  
JOHN, GO TAKE A SHOWER AND CHANGE INTO YOUR STRIPED PAJAMAS. Sherlock found it was best to be very specific. When John was ready for bed TURN OFF THE LAMPS AND COME IN Sherlock gathered his thrall into his arms and cuddled around him. He didn’t have the heart to undertake any sexual advances. This was not the real John. This silent thing that emitted no thoughts, few scents and images, no riffle of ideas, no resistance or scolds or exhortations or witty jabs… was not John. His hair smelled like John. His body felt like John. But he wasn’t John right now, and it was Sherlock’s fault, and Sherlock supposed the least he could do was refrain from taking sexual advantage of him until he was himself enough again to protest.  
John turned in his arms, burrowed his face in Sherlock’s neck, and slid his hands slowly up and down Sherlock’s arms.

On second thought, thralls need love too. JOHN, I WANT YOU TO IMAGINE THAT MY COCK IS COVERED WITH A THICK LAYER OF DELICIOUS CHOCOLATE, AND THAT YOUR JOB IS TO REMOVE IT ALL WITH YOUR MOUTH.

He was going to be angry anyway, Sherlock reasoned.

 

The next morning, quite early, they had an unexpected visitor. So unexpected they were actually compelled to dress rather quickly while Mrs. Hudson entertained the tense-looking, tweedy young man downstairs. She brought him up when Sherlock called to her, and gave John a hesitating, concerned look when he went into the kitchen to make tea without acknowledging her in any way.

“Sherlock, what did you—“

“Not now, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock boomed, and guided the young man to John’s leather chair by the cold fireplace.

My goodness, look at those ears, he thought, and John looked attentively at the young man’s ears and then served him a cup of hot tea.

“So,” said Sherlock, “you have come by train all the way from Devonshire first thing in the morning to consult me on a matter that has you absolutely terrified and shaking. You met a young lady on the train and took her number but then you crumpled up the tissue on which you wrote her number and have been holding it in your sweaty hand since you left the station. You’re not wearing a wedding ring but there’s a pale spot where it goes so you aren’t wearing it now, and your reasons for taking her number and hers for giving it would be clear but your anxiety suggests that you weren’t really attempting to make a sexual assignation so your reasons are perhaps not clear after all. Hm. Your boots are muddy suggesting that you were out early this morning probably before you got on the train since there’ s not much mud between the station and here unless you cut through the park, which you wouldn’t do if you were in a hurry and clearly you are, and the mud is dried so it’s from earlier this morning. It didn’t rain last night in London – I wish it had – but it did rain in Devonshire which is where your accent placed you when you introduced yourself, and the cut and make of your clothes is indicative of the sort of understated wealth that comes from inheriting money so tell me, young Henry, why have you left your comfortable estate in Devonshire to come here?

Faint scent of magnolia from John. Ah, thought Sherlock with pleasure. Still capable of being surprised by my brilliance. That was heartwarming.

The young man, of course, was sitting slack-jawed, and Sherlock grew impatient.

“You. Have. A problem. Tell me.” He instructed.

“… Are you a vampire?” Said Henry.

“Yes. What is the problem?”

“… Are you reading my mind??”

“No, I’m observing. Would you like me to read your mind?”

Henry looked away for a moment and then said suddenly, “Yes.”

Oh. Very well. Sherlock made a temple of his fingers and tapped in.

Chaos. A competing whirl of nonsensical images accompanied by a confused, frightened voice uttering snatches of conversation that made little sense.

“I see. You’re going quite mad. Interesting. What can I do for you?” Sherlock asked, as politely as he was capable of doing.  
First, the young man offered the sweaty tissue with the phone number on it. Sherlock took it gingerly.

“I… only took the number because I didn’t know if she was real. Sometimes I see people … and …. Things…. That aren’t there. I thought—“

“What was her name?”

“Margo… she said Margo,” the young man said miserably. “You’re right, I’m married, happily married, I just… I just needed to know if she was real or another phantom.”

JOHN, GIVE ME MY PHONE. Briskly, Sherlock dialed the number. “Hello, this is Sherlock Holmes. Is your name Margo? Were you on the train from Exeter this morning? Good. Thank you.” He hung up, cutting a woman’s voice off in mid-sentence and handing the phone back to John.

“She’s quite real. Tell me more about your hallucinations.”

Apparently, the young man was cursed. His whole family was cursed, stalked by giant hounds that galloped in the night and routinely killed family members or frightened them to death.

“At least, I think it’s a hound. Maybe it’s a wolf. Maybe it’s a werewolf,” the young man stammered.

“Don’t be ridiculous, there’s no such thing as werewolves,” said the vampire. “Have you seen it yourself?”

The young man began trembling. “I have. It chased me. It was glowing. I barely escaped.”

“Did anyone else see—“ Sherlock widened his eyes and wiggled his fingers in the air “--the Big Glowing Werewolf?”

“No,” the young man admitted. “Well, maybe. My cook’s daughter. A little girl named Emily. She said the wolf was going to punish me for eating her rabbit.” He gave a nervous laugh.

Sherlock grew very still. “... I’ll take the case. Go home. John and I will arrive this afternoon.”

The young man looked relieved and startled at the same time. “You will?”

“I said I would now out you go. Thank you. Give John your phone number and address, no, just tell him, his memory is excellent.”

When Henry had gone, Sherlock did a quick Happy Dance through the flat. He had samples to examine at Bart’s and a gothically insane rabbit-murdering heir to deduce. If it weren’t for the fact that he’d overdosed his only companion, life would be perfect. And it was going to rain, soon. It’s England. It always rains.

 

In the gleaming white lab at Bart’s, Sherlock was busily running tests on his grass samples. John sat with Molly, who had considerately brought them both coffee.

“Thank you.” John said politely, and took a sip.

Sherlock lifted his head for a moment, pleased to note that John hadn’t waited until Sherlock instructed him to drink. That was a hopeful sign. He returned to his samples. The bits of soil from the patch of discolored grass showed a higher content of phosphorus than the undamaged patch.

“John, if a human urinated on a patch of grass, would it raise the phosphorus level of the soil beneath to a discernable level?” He asked. There was the faintest of riffles.

“Maybe,” said John, and then added “but it was raining.”

“Yes, the rain would dilute it considerably. The phosphorus likely did not come from the body. Thank you John.”

“So,” Molly said in her usual, slightly nervous voice, “He can remember things?”

The muscles worked in Sherlock’s cheeks. “Of course he can remember.” He snapped.

“Oh. That’s good. I mean… it was nice of you to leave him with that,” Molly stammered. Sherlock shuddered.

“I mean, you took everything else, but he was a doctor, so … he’s still got that. He could still do things besides, you know, clean your flat.”

Sherlock simmered for a long moment and then put away his samples. “Yes. Thank you for pointing that out, Molly. Do drink your coffee, John. We’re going to Devonshire.”

John obediently finished his coffee and then rose to follow Sherlock. Molly looked after them, thinking that perhaps she didn’t envy John after all.

In the corridor, Sherlock heard Molly’s quiet mental observation and snarled to himself, “Silver lining, that,” but then realized with a drop in his guts that really, he preferred to be adored helplessly rather than condemned quietly.

“If nothing else, John, I am learning a great deal about myself from our association,” Sherlock announced. John listened politely. “Sadly, it is all bad.”

Sherlock pushed through the double doors and led John on a series of shortcuts to the train station.

One short cut led down a rather seedy alley. Although it was broad daylight, it was the sort of alley humans avoided unless they were up to no good. For a vampire, of course, little was dangerous, so Sherlock led John through it without a second thought.

Suddenly, from behind a large garbage bin, two young men emerged. They were the type more genteel Britons referred to as “yutes.”

They took up a threatening stance, and before Sherlock could deliver the string of insults that lept to mind, John was in front of him, gun drawn, aiming directly at one yute’s head.

Sherlock was startled to feel what seemed like a ring of black smoke that expanded out from John with a force one associated with the bottom half of a nuclear mushroom cloud. His face was rigid and blank, and his finger was on the trigger.  
The two young men froze. Finally, one stammered, “I just… wanted a smoke.” John didn’t waver, blink, speak, or breathe. The gun continued to stare with its single black eye at the target’s forehead.

“Try nicotine patches,” Sherlock advised.

The two fellows backed away, sidled around John and Sherlock, and exited the alley with disbelieving backward glances.

Sherlock gave John a long look. Was that John protecting Sherlock or a thrall protecting his vampire? He couldn’t tell, and desperately wished he knew. Maybe it was a combination of both. He wanted to believe it was John, but the poor man couldn’t pick out Chinese food without help right now.

JOHN, YOU CAN PUT THE GUN AWAY.

With quick, decisive movements, John put the safety on the gun and tucked it back into the waistband of his jeans.

Upon reflection, Sherlock didn’t remember telling John to bring the gun at all. They continued toward the train station, and a grin spread over Sherlock’s face. John was still in there, plainly. He hadn’t eradicated the man. Now it was just a matter of waiting to see how much of him would return.

 

On the train to Devonshire, Sherlock entertained himself with picking John’s brain. “John, tell me about how you got shot in Afghanistan. John, tell me about your sister’s drinking. John, tell me the most humiliating moment of your life… oh, nevermind, I was there for that one. John, tell me about the first time you had sex…” and thus passed the time prying all John’s secrets out of him until the train pulled into the station.


	10. Vamplock Ch 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is slowly emerging from the spell of Sherlock's drugging kiss. How will he feel about... things?

In Devonshire Sherlock rented a car (on Mycroft’s tab again,) and checked himself and John into a lovely little bed & breakfast with a cozy restaurant and pub attached. As he had no interest in appearances, Sherlock made it clear that one bed was sufficient, but it had best be large. John was still safely buffered from the ability to feel mortified, and stood by serenely.

Feeling relieved to be away from the accusing eyes of Mycroft, Molly, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock sent John up to their room with their meager luggage and then, upon his return, sat him down at the bar in the pub and ordered food and beer for him, and a tea for himself. The television mounted high in the corner behind the barkeep seemed to be broadcasting some sort of sporting event.

Watching John stare blankly at his food while he ate gave Sherlock the willies. JOHN, WATCH THE TELLY. WATCH THE GAME. Then he turned his own attention to the barkeep, intending to ask the fellow what he knew about young Henry, and the local legend of the curse, or the werewolf, or whatever it was.

He was suddenly interrupted by the astonishing sound of John’s brain singing some ghastly song lyrics along with several thousand tone-deaf humans in the stands of the football match being televised.

_When you walk through the storm, hold your head up high--_

Sherlock was speechless.

_And don’t be afraid of the dark--_

Even the barkeep seemed to want to stop drying dishes and stare up at the screen. Sherlock tapped into his thoughts, and Good God, he was mentally singing it too.

_At the end of the storm is a golden sky--_

Sherlock looked around wildly to see if any other humans had suddenly stopped living productive lives long enough to partake in this bizarre ritual.

_And the sweet silver long of the lark--_

Oh, how banal! Oh… make this stop, Sherlock thought desperately, noticing an old man wearing a hat in the corner who was also watching the telly and nodding along with the song.

_Walk on through the wind, walk on through the rain--_

Walk on to the traintracks and die, but whatever you do stop making that noise, Sherlock beseeched the stadium full of half-drunken carolers. He pulled away from the bar and stepped through the front door, checking to see if the street was full of people who had all stopped in their tracks and were singing this ghastly song. No, normal life was going on. He took a deep breath and ventured back in just in time for the big finish. The fans on the telly practically bawled out the last line. _You’ll neh-ver walk aahhhh-looooonnnnnnne!_

Sherlock stared at John as if he’d grown horns, but John was still picking at his chips and seemed content to watch the… thing, whatever it was, on the screen, so Sherlock tugged down his coat and tried to settle himself.

That was a harrowing experience.

He never wanted to hear John mindlessly singing that mindless song ever, ever again.

When the barkeep had pulled himself away from the game and resumed drying his glasses, Sherlock leaned toward him and asked the fellow if he knew young Henry Baskerville.

“Ah yes. Poor Sir Henry. Going mad as a hatter, he is. Oy, what am I saying, poor Lady Beryl, that’s who, only I knew her when she was just Beryl Green, schoolmum, but still, poor Lady Beryl!”

“Beryl?” Sherlock prodded, feigning patience the way he could for very, very short periods of time.

“The wife! Such a sweet little lady, wouldn’t hurt a fly. No, I mean really. Won’t eat meat, won’t wear leather or fur… She’s a saint.”

Clearly the wife was up to no good, Sherlock thought. She’ll be the first one I look at. He looked over at John, who was still staring raptly up at the telly while reaching for his beer. Immediately he knocked the entire thing over and it ran along the bar and partially into the deep sink on the other side.

The barkeep laughed and slapped a towel on the bar. “Eh. Most of it went into the sink. It was wet already.”

John stared at the sink and Sherlock said, “It’s alright John. You heard him, it was wet already. Finish your chips, we’ve got work to do.”

John hesitated, and Sherlock almost snapped at him, but suddenly realized that John was failing to follow an order. That was a good thing! Maybe the thralldom was wearing off! Maybe he’d soon have his John back! Sherlock waited with baited breath as John considered the beer running into the sink, contemplated his chips for a few moments more, and then slid off the stool and turned to Sherlock.

He almost looked… aware.

“John?”

John stared at him. Hm. Well, Mycroft did say it would take time.

“John, let’s go see Sir Henry Baskerville and find out what the missing rabbit has to do with him going insane.”

John followed him compliantly, but his eyes were definitely a bit different. He seemed to be looking about him more. Sherlock’s heart soared.

In the car, Sherlock put John in charge of the GPS and took the wheel. Soon they were drawing abreast of a very respectably sized estate with a manor house large enough to be chilly but small enough not to give rise to any fears of getting lost inside and starving to death in a forgotten bedroom. A long, curved drive swept from the manor house to a brick wall with wrought-iron gate that framed its exit from the main road.

Sherlock was just pulling into the drive when a young girl stepped out of some bushes and came to stand in the drive, blocking their passage. Sherlock stopped the car and stared at her through the windscreen. The girl stared back.

She looked to be about 9 years old, with long black hair cut in a fringe that nearly hid her eyes. She was dressed in black, and stood, straight and skinny, her fists clenched at her sides, and her eyes unwavering.

“Ah,” Sherlock said. “This must be Emily, patron saint of rabbits.”

Sherlock lowered the window and after a long, suspicious stare, the girl came around and stood a careful distance from them.

When she spoke, her voice was low and clear, oddly inflected, yet quite distinct.

“Ah yew Shuhleck Ewmz?” she demanded.

“I am.” Sherlock said crisply.

“Oret thin.” She said, and turned and walked away, disappearing through the bushes again.

Sherlock regarded her departing figure quizzically for a moment, and then drove to the front of the house.

They were greeted at the front door by a slender, pale lady with soft blond hair and features finely cut yet somehow gentle. “I’m so glad you’ve come,” she said as soon as they reached her. “Do come in.”

 

After an hour of rapid-fire questions, Sherlock had ascertained to his satisfaction that Sir Henry was indeed hallucinating, sweating, and otherwise feeling quite ill, that he had felt this way for weeks, but lately it was getting worse, and that the hallucinations usually happened at night on the moors. There was a particularly foggy bottom he liked to stumble around in after dark. Apparently he wasn’t going mad fast enough for his own satisfaction if he liked going out in the mist at night and looking around for things to frighten him witless, Sherlock noted with a touch of disdain.

Sherlock also discovered that Lady Beryl did indeed eschew all animal products, had an extensive garden from which she made her own salads, and hovered over her husband with a sad and loving attentiveness that aroused all of Sherlock’s darkest suspicions.

“Mm. Perhaps John and I should go out onto the moors with you tonight and have a look. And now,” Sherlock announced abruptly, after a half-hour in the study gleaning this invaluable information, “I’d like to talk to Emily about her rabbit.”

Henry managed a weak laugh. Beryl shuddered.

Henry said, “Dear, take them to talk to Cook.”

In the kitchen, a fat and sweating cook (is there any other kind?) but with Emily’s dark and staring eyes, paused in the chopping of her pie crust to say, “Ay, Emmy’s rabbit. We et that rabbit.”

“You et it?” Sherlock pressed, eyebrows aloft.

“Et it for dinnah! Eat ‘em all eventchally.”

“All?”

The cook went to the back door and called out “Oy, Emmy. Show ‘em the rabbits.”

Sherlock and John followed her directions out the back where Emily the strange led them to a shed where the rabbits were kept in large cages. There were several.

Emily watched with piercing intensity as Sherlock and John eyed the rabbits. “Theah fewd to everiwin but me an Letty Beddle.”

“You make pets of them,” Sherlock murmured, and Emily nodded.

“Me en Letty Beddle.”

“You and Lady Beryl?”

“Swet I sed!”

“Right. Well. It isn’t wise to get emotionally attached to your food supply,” Sherlock told her. Believe me, I know, he thought. He glanced behind him to see John staring at the ground with his hands in his pockets.

“Oom I gonna geh teched to, arr yumins?” Emily asked with a discernible sneer, staring at Sherlock from under her black fringe.

“You have a point.” Sherlock admitted dryly, turning to leave the shed.

“Yew a vampai, ven?” Emily asked.

Sherlock inclined his head politely.

She pointed at John. “Zet yuh rebbet?”

Sherlock and John looked at one another for a long, uncomfortable moment.

“Aoud yew feel if sum arr vampai et yer rebbet?” Emily challenged him bluntly, and led the way out of the shed. She walked them to their car.

“Emily,” Sherlock paused before getting into the car. He stood straight, and looked down at her over the upturned collar of his long, black coat. She stared back up at him, equally posturesque. Together, they looked like an Amphigorey illustration. “You aren’t … doing something to Sir Henry, are you?”

“Wed if I new aow!” She said, and walked away, stiff, skinny, and smoldering.

Sherlock and John got into the car, and Sherlock commented, as they pulled away, “I don’t generally care for children, but I rather liked that one.”

John stared calmly out the window, but one corner of his mouth turned up a bit.

 

There wasn’t much to explore in the little village, and Sherlock’s taste did not lean toward the bucolic, so eventually they ended up back at the Bed and Breakfast, up in their room, waiting for their late evening appointment to walk out on the moors with young Sir Henry. They tossed their jackets over a chair, having both spent a nonplussed moment realizing that only home had pegs to hang them on, and neither could be bothered to open the wardrobe and wrestle the coats onto hangers. Human males and vampire males are startlingly alike that way.

Sherlock kicked off his shoes, dropped onto the bed, and opened his arms. JOHN.

John removed his shoes more slowly and sat on the bed for a moment with his back to Sherlock. Sherlock could almost feel John’s mind struggling to come out of the hazy, pleasurable fog he’d laid on it with that deadly kiss – was it only two nights ago?

JOHN.

John turned his head a little toward Sherlock.

COME LIE WITH ME.

His shoulders sagged and he lay back, rolling over to enter Sherlock’s embrace, and Sherlock wrapped himself around John like an eel.

JOHN, I KNOW YOU’RE GOING TO BE ANGRY WITH ME WHEN YOU FINALLY COME OUT OF THIS. I KNOW I BETRAYED YOU IN THE WORST WAY YOU CAN IMAGINE. BUT I DON’T HAVE FRIENDS. I ONLY HAVE YOU. I WANT TO KEEP YOU.

John stared over Sherlock’s shoulder, and dimly his mind brought up the image of a rabbit in a cage.

Sherlock sighed and squeezed John closer. “The cage isn’t just to keep the rabbits in, you know,” he whispered. “It’s to keep other things out.”

John’s mind didn’t attempt any further communication. His large eyes closed and he seemed fatigued. Sherlock buried his nose in John’s neck and was overcome, as always with the smell of him, and the warmth. Just a taste, he thought, and carefully pushed the collar aside, nuzzled down to where the neck met the shoulder, and licked the slightly salty skin. He could feel John sigh. Then he bit in gently, letting that sweet flavor flood his mouth, loving the way John rocked up against him and wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s waist, and brought his hand up to press Sherlock’s head closer.

This moment was worth anything Sherlock had to pay for it, he thought darkly, and then disengaged his fangs and pulled back. “Take your clothes off, John.” He whispered, and watched in satisfaction as John rose and removed every article, one by one, dropping them on the chair. His body was marked all over from Sherlock’s lips and fangs. LOOK IN THE MIRROR, he directed John, who turned and gave himself a long look. I WANT YOU TO COUNT EVERY MARK I’VE PUT ON YOU, AND NOTE ITS LOCATION.

John stood for a moment, eyes running over his neck and shoulders, his chest. TURN. There were a few on his back and nape as well.

Sherlock knelt on the bed before him. “Now take my clothes off me,” he breathed, and John unbuttoned Sherlock’s shirt and slid it off his shoulders with loving hands.

When they both were nude, and under the covers, Sherlock rolled onto his back with John in his arms. “Now, John, you’re going to bite me right here,” Sherlock pointed to the spot low on his neck that mirrored the location of the most recent bite he’d put on John. “First you lick, then you bite. I want you to do it carefully, gently… close your teeth together gradually until I say THERE.”

John lowered himself obediently down on Sherlock, licked that spot tenderly, and then took a mouthful of flesh in between his teeth and tightened carefully. Sherlock gave a little moan as the sensation went from pleasure to the edge of pain -- THERE. JUST HOLD ONTO IT … NOW A BIT MORE PRESSURE… PERFECT. RELEASE. SUCK ON IT A BIT. OH YES. BIT LONGER. GOOD.

John followed his orders faithfully. Sherlock sighed with satisfaction. “Now. I want you to work your way all over my body, and do that until I have a mark in every place that you do. I want us to match perfectly.” Then Sherlock sank back into the pillows, arms limp and spread wide, and let John move slowly over him, licking, then inflicting the slow, carefully tight bites that hurt just enough to make Sherlock whimper with pleasure. The ones on his chest were the best ones, and he arched his body up against John’s mouth and cupped his head gratefully.

By the time John had finished his task of marking his vampire, he was thick and hard, and Sherlock shifted until John’s cock was trapped between Sherlock’s sweaty thighs. He squeezed tight, wrapped his arms possessively around his warm thrall, and commanded John to thrust until he came. Knowing what John responded to, Sherlock tightened one hand almost brutally on the back of John’s neck and said in guttural tones, “Harder, John. Harder!”

John curved his arms under Sherlock’s back and dug his fingers into the warm flesh of his shoulders.

Sherlock tangled his long fingers in John’s hair and pulled, his other arm crushing John to him. “Do it!” They squeezed each other tight until they almost seemed welded together, and John pushed himself into Sherlock’s warmth repeatedly as Sherlock commanded him on. “Do it!”

When John had finally shuddered out the last of himself, Sherlock wiped his hand through the slick fluid, rubbed it on his own erection, and rolled John over. He slid himself between John’s buttocks but didn’t penetrate, merely rubbing himself between the round muscles, grinding against John’s arse while John lay gasping, face down. Then he came with a groan, and fell down on top of the smaller man.

They lay breathing together. Sherlock was content.

John, beneath him, opened his eyes and felt that for the first time in days he was perfectly still. That is to say, since the kiss, he’d felt like a child being rocked in a cradle, or being driven around in a carseat strapped in an SUV. Or being on a ship that lurched slowly to and fro. Now, tonight, lying under Sherlock’s heavy weight, sticky with both their pleasure, it felt as though the rocking had finally stopped, and John could take stock of where he was. Not where he was physically, he knew exactly where he was physically. He was in a Bed and Breakfast in Devonshire, and tonight he and Sherlock were going out onto the moors.

But where was he, in other ways? He concentrated on the immediate.

The pillows under his head smelled unfamiliar. The sheets were much crisper than the ones back at the flat. They were crisp and smelled like bleach. Mrs. Hudson didn’t use that much bleach. It wasn’t unpleasant, merely foreign. John lay there, feeling Sherlock, warm and breathing on him, and smelled the crisp white sheets.

Above him, Sherlock snuggled into John and hoped Henry wouldn’t text for another hour yet. Yes, we’ll go out onto the moors with you, you fool, but it’s clear there’s no hound and either your wife or Emily is poisoning you somehow. If it’s Emily I may let her get away with it—

Sherlock’s thoughts were suddenly distracted by a mental wave of something from John. It was … like the ripple when John was considering options, only it was all white. Like a deck of cards shuffling, but all the cards were blank. But they were there! And they were shuffling.

Sherlock was afraid to even inhale for fear of distracting John in what was obviously an effort to swim up from deep underwater. He waited, saw another ripple, and then exulted silently as another wave, this one of scent, drifted past him. For a moment Sherlock was too happy at the progress to even register the scent or analyze its meaning. He was lying on top of John, nose buried in the other man’s nape, just up under the bit of dark gold hair that came down there.

Finally, movement! Scent! Signs of life! Sherlock’s eyes squeezed shut in gratitude, and if he’d believed in God, he would have thanked Him. As it was, Sherlock thanked Mycroft mentally, which was the closest thing.

Only after lying there for several moments, sprawled on John like a dog on his dog bed, did Sherlock finally register two realizations. One, John was holding very still. Two, the scent was a combination of mothballs, and a deep, loamy woods.

Quickly, Sherlock went into his mind bank and retrieved all his data on John’s associations. Spices were sex, and so was lemon. Woodsmoke was rage (orange was if it was extra bad). Fruity or tart smells were, in general, realizations. Rotting smells were disgust. But mothballs were…. Fear. He’d smelled that mothball scent the night Sherlock had decided to teach John that riding crops could be fun. And the woods, the woods meant freedom.

Sherlock processed the information rapidly and came to several conclusions.

The first: John’s mind was coming back, but so far it was coming back without words or images. At least without any that Sherlock could access, and did this mean they weren’t back YET, or they weren’t coming back EVER, or they were back but somehow Sherlock could no longer access them? And this development, with all its variables, was just the first item to pop up in Sherlock’s mind like an unwanted advertisement.

The next was: John was making no effort to communicate anything to Sherlock. In fact, he’d gone very still, and with John that was always … bad. John went still when he was in danger. Fear. Mothballs.

And the final realization was that the woods were John’s emblem of freedom. John was already contemplating escape.

Now it was Sherlock who went still, because suddenly, he was in danger too. He was in danger of imminent heartbreak. His first reaction was childish rage. I finally find a human I adore, and it wants to run away. He had a sudden, frightening impulse to bite John into submission: just pull John’s arms back behind him, and grip them, and then sink his fangs into the other man’s nape and pump him full of paralyzing chemicals. The hell if you’ll leave me, thought some infantile part of his brain savagely.

His second, cooler thought was, don’t do that till you have to.

Neither man had moved, but the atmosphere around them had changed dramatically. John was lying pinned, his mind carefully clear of words, but…

…above him Sherlock inhaled slowly, his muscles rigid. He was getting a very clear image from John now: it was the memory of them lying together on the couch back at the flat, and he was seeing and feeling it from John’s perspective now. It was the memory of kissing… slow, deep, wonderful kissing. But there was a sweet flavor (vampire blood, that’s right), and overlaying it all was mothballs.

John wasn’t afraid of Sherlock killing him anymore. He wasn’t agonizing about his sexuality, or his personal possessions, or his bodily integrity. He was afraid of Sherlock’s power to reduce him, at any time, to that fuzzy, mindless state, that helpless, pitiable existence that was, yes, just exactly as debilitating as John had imagined it.


	11. Vamplock Ch 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John comes back to normal, but their relationship does not.

Sherlock rolled off of John and stood. “I’ll just clean up,” he announced coolly. “Young Henry will be texting soon to indicate his foolish desire to stumble around the moors in the dark.” He went into the bathroom but left the door ajar while he showered. Even in his alarm, Sherlock thought he’d better be gentlemanly enough not the hog the lavatory. He trusted that John would stay by his side for a day or two longer, if only for practical reasons. John surely wouldn’t try to make a run for it from Devonshire, in the middle of the night. All his things were back in London and he had very little cash. Sherlock was certain he had until their return to figure out what to do.

As they readied themselves, Sherlock found himself starting innumerable sentences in his head with JOHN… and then realizing he didn’t know what to say, or didn’t have anything to say. He was just… checking. Checking if his voice still sounded in the other man’s head. Checking if the other man would respond.

JOHN… (John looked at him) … HAND ME MY PHONE (John found it on the bedside table and handed it over.) Sherlock checked it briefly. Henry wanted to meet in a half hour. He tucked the phone into his pocket and went restlessly to the window (horrid lacy curtains).

JOHN… CHECK AND SEE IF THERE’S ANYTHING HAPPENING ON YOUR BLOG.

John quietly retrieved his laptop from the case in the wardrobe, sat down on the edge of the bed with it, and powered it up. He cleared his throat, as if he hadn’t spoken in a while. “Nearly a million hits,” he told Sherlock.

Sherlock continued to stare unseeingly out the window. He moved the lace curtain (still horrid) a bit so he was actually looking at John’s reflection in the glass.

John said, “Do you want me to update it?”

Sherlock sighed. “No, not now. We’ll leave in a few moments.”

John turned back to the laptop and scrolled down, reading the new comments.

JOHN… (John turned, Sherlock saw his reflection still.) IF I ASKED YOU TO KISS ME—

Instantly a spike of fright shot out of John like a huge spear of ice. Literally, Sherlock could sense a surge of what felt like a white shaft of ice filling the room like an iceberg. And the smell! Mothballs so sharp it made Sherlock’s nose sting.

The only thing he could compare it to was John’s reaction when he first saw the photograph of James Moriarty.  
Wonderful. (“How are you different, Sherlock?” He heard Lestrade’s voice in his head.)

How much of the thralldom was left, he wondered. Was it completely worn off, or was it gradual? When in doubt, Sherlock always fell back on experimentation, and so he turned away from the window and walked toward John.

John’s face, as always, didn’t show his fear. Or at least, not clearly. It was more of his waiting stillness that gave it away. Well, that and the ice, and the smell, and the onset of the mental, brace-yourself humming that slowly grew louder.

John closed the laptop and set it aside, watching Sherlock tensely.

HOLD STILL.

Sherlock leaned over and pressed his lips to John’s. John was still, but the terror in his mind was deafening. His heartbeat seemed to turn into a series of car crashes, literally, Sherlock could hear metal and glass just smashing away over and over in John’s head.

He kissed John anyway, just on the lips, making no effort to invade or invite. Just a series of gentle mouthings on the lips. Then he drew back as if to say “See? Nothing to fear.”

He waited for the crashing to subside, and the humming to abate, and the air to clear. The levels went down to about 60% and stabilized.

“John, I’m not going to—“ Sherlock realized he couldn’t promise, and rephrased it. “I don’t intend to do that again … right now. I don’t intend to do it again any time soon … unless there’s some compelling reason.”

John stared at him silently, but it wasn’t the blank, polite stare of the pleasantly drugged thrall. It was the set, watchful stare he’d worn those first two days of _Glass! Poison! Bridge…_

Sherlock stepped back, feeling like his heart was turning black and starting to burn with something very unpleasant. If you ever run from me, I’ll drag you back by the hair, he thought darkly, and was aware that the intensity of the thought had grown exponentially since the early days when he’d informed John (with what seemed now like mere irritation in comparison) that he’d put him on a leash.

“Let’s go,” he said, and led the way down the stairs, brooding. What was the difference between him and Moriarty? I’m better looking, that’s what, he thought. And with that unhappy realization, they went out into the night, Sherlock leading the way, John lagging behind, as if unwilling to get too close.

 

 

They arrived at the manor house and Sherlock excused himself politely, saying he needed to talk with Cook one more time. With his fang-hiding grimace that passed for smile, he took himself off to the kitchen, his coat billowing open as he went. Lady Beryl looked after him calmly, and then turned to John.

“Won’t you borrow one of Sir Henry’s scarves? It’s cold out on the moors, and you’re not dressed nearly warmly enough.”

“Thank you,” John said, accepting a hunter green scarf, and then waited until Sherlock returned. A few moments later, four men stood behind the house, collars turned up against the chill night air. Sir Henry was bringing along his man, Bates.

 _Are they all called Bates?_ Sherlock heard John muse mentally. Relief flooded through him that John was finally producing coherent thought again. He said nothing, however, merely giving the other man a long, assessing look, and then turning back to Sir Henry.

The gleam of their torches cut shafts through the mist as they pointed them about. “This is the path I took when I first saw the hound,” Henry told them nervously, and they set off.

“I go around this way because my wife doesn’t like me tramping about in her garden,” he added apologetically. Yes, that wife of yours, Sherlock thought. Once we get this nonsense out of the way…

The moon was full but the night was partially cloudy.

“Rain coming soon,” Henry commented, and his man Bates muttered an agreement. God, I hope so, Sherlock brooded. Finish this, get back to London, get John back in our flat, get us back on the trail of the serial killer, who apparently wouldn’t do anything again until it rained.

Fancy thinking it doesn’t rain enough here, Sherlock added to himself, wrapping his long coat more closely about him. He glanced back to see that John was still behind him. He was, but the mist was getting thicker as they made their way out onto the rocky and uneven moors.

 _Beautiful here,_ he heard John opine quietly.

Unable to help himself, he sneered mentally, IF YOU LIKE ROCKS.

Long silence. Then _Nothing wrong with rocks._ Sherlock felt a stab of delight that John had responded to him.

“Up ahead!” Cried Henry, and they turned their attention to him. “Here’s the place, right about here.” The two torch beams bobbed and wavered, and then cut off.

“Now we have to wait,” Henry explained breathlessly. Next to him, his man Bates huffed clouds of breath and shivered in his coat. John drifted over to Bates and drew him off to the side a bit.

“Have you ever seen anything out here?” He asked. Bates shook his head immediately.

“Turn off your lights, turn off your lights,” Henry cried, and they did. The four men stood around in near darkness, turning their eyes to the white mist, to the rocks, to the occasional tree, and up at the moon, and waited.

Sherlock could see somewhat more clearly than the others, vampire vision being what it was, but he didn’t feel compelled to share that information.

JOHN, WHERE ARE YOU? He messaged experimentally.

 _Leaning against the big rock._ Good, not lying yet.

The night grew colder. Sherlock was just about to announce that this nonsense had gone far enough when Sir Henry Baskerville went into hysterics.

“There it is!! There it is!! Oh God, Look! Look!” He cried, and turned his torch on. They all whipped about, admittedly startled, and snapped on their torches as well. The beams danced about the rocks. Henry let out a scream of terror and lit out running for the manor house. His man, Bates, seemed torn between trying to find the hound and staying with his Master.

“Oh, go with him, keep him from falling face down in ‘Letty Beddle’s gah-den.” Sherlock snapped.

Bates complied, jogging after the fleeing man while John and Sherlock remained, training their torches this way and that in search of the glowing hound. When the other two men were far enough away, and silence had fallen, they listened keenly.

“Do you hear anything?” Sherlock asked.

“No,” John said. “Let’s turn off the torches again,” he suggested, and they did, and waited for their eyes to readjust to the darkness.

Silence. Still nothing.

“He said it was over there,” John pointed, and they began to make their way in that direction.

“Watch the—“ Sherlock pointed near John’s feet.

“Yes, I—“

“Here, let’s cut across the—“

“No, there’s a ravine—“

“Damn—“

“You’re not wearing the shoes for this.”

“I don’t OWN shoes for this, John.”

Finally they stopped, breathing out clouds of mist, and looking around impatiently.

“There’s no dog out here,” John said. Then he gave a short laugh, “Oh, wait, look.”

He pointed up the hill, and both he and Sherlock could see two pointed rocks. One was well in front of the other, but from the right angle, their silhouettes did rather look like a pair of pointed ears standing alertly up.

“Oh what an idiot,” said Sherlock in disgust, and then looked down at his shoes. “Let’s go back.”

In silent agreement, the two men turned away and took a few steps. Suddenly, Sherlock stopped. “John.”

John stopped too, and the two faced each other in the mist and moonlight.

“John, don’t be afraid of me.”

John lifted his chin a bit and stared at Sherlock. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

“Because all I want is—“ Sherlock was unable to go on.

“All you want is to keep me as your own and do whatever you want with my body and mind for—“

“For the rest of your life, yes,” Sherlock finished impatiently.

“And when you’re done with me?”

“I’ll never be done with you.”

John gave a short laugh and glanced around. “And that shouldn’t scare me?”

Sherlock tipped his head. “No, not at all. I don’t see what the fuss is about. Oh, oh, I’m taking over your life, well, what were you doing with it? Living in a bed sit, wiping noses at some dreary clinic… isn’t this better?”

The moon went behind a cloud and Sherlock became a long silhouette in a black coat, moving slowly toward John across the misty moors.

“You really do pick the strangest settings and the worst ways to try and be reassuring,” John said.

Sherlock came forward until they were close enough to touch. “Don’t be afraid of me anymore, John,” he commanded softly.

“Do things my way for a change, and perhaps I won’t,” John answered unexpectedly. Then he turned and resolutely started walking back to the manor house. Sherlock followed speculatively. Alright, well… that was… hopeful.

When they reached the manor, Sir Henry was bundled up in a blanket by the fire in his handsome library. Lady Beryl drew John and Sherlock in and offered them seats near the fire as well, and a hot drink. Henry was a trembling wreck.

“Did you see it??” He demanded, as soon as they were settled.

“Yes, I believe we did,” Sherlock commented, taking a sip of his hot chocolate. That was really rather nice. He’d have to have John make some when they got home. “It was a pair of pointy rocks that look like dog ears from a certain angle. You’re really going quite mad. Do your personal physician and your solicitor understand the situation?”

Henry gave Sherlock a pitiable look. Sherlock looked back with all the compassion at his disposal (i.e., none) and said, “Well, what?”

“Do you really think I’m going mad?” He whispered. His wife, standing behind him, placed her hands on his shoulders and looked sadly down at him.

“Oh yes, quite mad. Do you see halos around objects?”

Henry nodded eagerly, “Yes, how did you know?”

Sherlock shrugged, “Certain kinds of madness are quite predictable. They follow a set course. I think John and I are rather done in, it’s past midnight and of course we still have to drive—“ he broke off and gave a mighty yawn. John shot him a sideways glance. Sherlock never yawned unless he was indicating boredom. “—mm, oh my, excuse me, yes… must drive all the way back to the bed & breakfast…”

“You must stay here tonight,” Lady Beryl said smoothly, and John was opening his mouth to assure her that this would not be necessary when Sherlock (HUSH, JOHN) thanked her graciously and looked around pointedly as though all he needed now were some trusty servant to guide him to his quarters and perhaps see to the fireplace.

“Allow me,” said Lady Beryl. “Mrs. Weaver has turned in for the night, but I had rooms made up for you in advance. I knew this would be a taxing evening, and I thought you might want to speak with Henry’s physician tomorrow.”

“You plan well in advance, Lady Beryl,” Sherlock said, tipping his head back and looking down at her in a manner that made the hairs on John’s neck go up. John turned and looked at Lady Beryl with new eyes.

_Her? You think it’s her??_

IT’S DEFINITELY HER, JOHN.

_This I’ll have to see._

GOOD. ONE MORE REASON NOT TO RUN AWAY.

John and Sherlock were assigned separate rooms, but they were adjoining. The fires in their respective fireplaces were burning low, but the rooms were comfortable. John admired the four poster beds, and the antique lamps that sat glowing about in the corners.

“I think we’ll have a late morning,” Lady Beryl told them sweetly. “I’ll send Bates round to see to you at 9am.” And then she was gone.

“I suppose that’s a late morning in the country,” Sherlock commented wryly as he toed off his shoes and began disrobing.

John gave a brisk nod and said, “Right then. I’ll take the other room,” and went through the adjoining door.

Sherlock huffed out a sigh and went after him. “John, are you really going to be tiresome?”

John was lining his shoes neatly by the door. “Yes. Yes, I believe I am going to be tiresome,” he told Sherlock challengingly, and stripped off his shirt, leaving the t-shirt beneath. “I’m going to enjoy a night in a bed that has no restraints on it, and no vampires in it. And you are not going to interfere with my good night’s sleep. You are going to march your arse right back into that other room and get into that bed and sprawl out like the selfish bedhog you are, and leave me strictly alone until 9am tomorrow morning, or so help me God, I will become the Thrall From Hell!”

Sherlock was taken aback. This was the most John had ever said in the… well, they’d only known each other a week.

He tried imploring. “John…”

“No. Leave me be, Sherlock. You need to let me have a tiny bit of space if you want me to trust you, and leave me a shred of dignity in this house where we are guests if you don’t want me to hate you more than I already do for … you realize that I have spent the last 3 days under the influence of what is basically a date rape drug, you understand that, don’t you? I need to know you understand that.”

Sherlock wavered. He simply did not like sleeping without John anymore. John was warm, and smelled good, and… well, he liked drinking his blood and fucking him, not to put too fine a point on it.

“Show you me are capable of this.” John said with finality, and shucked off his jeans, crawling into bed in his shirt and boxers.

“Fine.” Sherlock turned and went back into the other room. He stripped completely naked and slid under the sheets.

John actually had a good night’s sleep, but Sherlock lay awake for most of it, staring at the windows and waiting for dawn. Get John home, and we’ll try this again, he thought. We’ll start over. He did finally doze off a little, as the pink streaks started creeping across the sky.

 

 

Neither Sir Henry nor Lady Beryl appeared for breakfast. John and Sherlock were shown into a well-appointed dining room with a buffet laid out on the side, and John ate enough for both of them while Sherlock sipped hot liquids and looked longingly at John’s neck.

“Just a taste?” he finally asked.

“In here? Really?” John asked, and then dove into his second helping of bacon.

“When we get home?”

“Home? Oh, you mean back to your flat? Yes, we’ll talk when we get back there.” John said.

Sherlock felt a faint wash of unease. He shouldn’t have let John have last night to himself. He should have gone in, overrode his defenses and protests, and re-established his authority. If they’d been home, he’d have done it. Alright, he thought. Just you wait till I get you home.

He sulked (but with dignity) until they finished, and Lady Beryl entered the room, as well-coiffed and gentle as ever, to inform them that the physician would arrive at 11am, and would they be so good as to take a turn about the grounds, or help themselves to anything in the library, or pass their time however they preferred, but do stay and talk to the physician?

“Of course, Lady Beryl. I am very eager to talk with the physician,” Sherlock assured her with his most artificial smile.

After she departed, apparently returning to her husband’s side to linger with attentive devotion (HA), Sherlock swept on his coat and went out into the dewy grass to look at Lady Beryl’s garden. It was to the East of the manor, and was quite large and well-tended. One area was devoted to delicate herbs, another to vegetables, and a large portion to a profusion of flowers, a kaleidoscope of colors in the fresh, late morning sunlight.

Sherlock pulled out his phone, made one phone call, spoke briefly, and then disconnected and dropped the phone back into his pocket. Then he entered the garden and stepped carefully amongst the rows, wincing at the damage done to his shoes. But after last night, really, they were probably a lost cause. He soldiered on because there were two things he was looking for. One was a section of plants with a certain purple flower. He found that shortly. And the other was almost exactly where he thought it would be.

“Dewnt step awn Lewcee,” the low, childish voice commanded severely.

Sherlock parted the tall stalks to see Emily sitting on a sheet of plastic spread in the dirt. Her legs were straight out in front of her and her hands were folded primly in her lap. Her fringe was in her eyes as usual, but the rest of her hair was back in a ribbon today.

“Where’s Lucy?” Sherlock asked.

“Undah yuh feet, olmos!”

Sherlock looked down at the large, grayish-brown rabbit nosing about in the tender green leaves of Lady Beryl’s flowers.

“Lady Beryl lets you bring the rabbits into her garden?” Sherlock asked testingly, as if he knew the answer.

“She does. Ey told yuh we’s the anly ones dewnt think ovem es fewd. She says I may bring vem evra day. Give em sem joy befaw they killed.” Emily’s eyes fell broodingly to “Lucy.”

“But she wants them over here, away from the vegetables, am I right?” Sherlock asked.

Emily nodded.

“Thought so.”

Emily looked over at Sherlock’s shoes. “They’s rooned.” She commented indifferently.

“Quite alright. They were wet already.” Sherlock said, and then turned away and paused. Something seemed familiar. Bit of déjà vu, he thought, and shook it off.

 _Sherlock, the physician’s here._ Sherlock looked around but didn’t see John. Finally he glanced at the house and saw that John was standing at one of the windows. My, that thought had an impressive range, he mused.

COMING. TELL THEM I’D LIKE US ALL TO MEET IN THE SAME ROOM. LIBRARY, HENRY’S BEDROOM, I DON’T CARE, BUT I WANT US ALL THERE. COOK TOO. TELL HER TO BRING WHAT I TOLD HER ABOUT.

_Actually, the police are here too._

OH GOOD, HAVE THEM JOIN THE REST.

John turned away from the window and Sherlock stopped to pick a purple flower and pop it in the buttonhole of his coat. Then, a small smile hovering on his lips, he returned to the house.

The party was assembled in the library again. Sir Henry, pale and rather sweaty by the fireplace. Lady Beryl at his side. Cook hovering nervously near the door with several plastic bins in her hands. The housekeeper, whom neither John nor Sherlock had actually seen till this moment (she looked like housekeepers do.) The police stood politely near the windows. And the physician was seated across from Henry.

The physician, Sherlock noted, did NOT look like physicians usually do. He didn’t look either pompous and self-important, or avuncular and reassuring (for these are the two usual flavors.) He looked… shady.

John was leaning against a desk, arms folded over his chest, a small smile on his lips. He looked like a man waiting for the show to begin. Sherlock cleared his throat and opened the curtain.

“Sir Henry has been convinced for some time he is going mad. He has suffered confusion, depression, and disorientation, and more alarmingly, hallucinations and halos around objects. These alone would be convincing evidence of madness, and I have no doubt my presence here was intended to confirm that he is indeed hallucinating and that no hound exists. This I can confirm. He has been hallucinating. No hound exists. However, there are additional symptoms that point to another conclusion. Sir Henry’s vision is blurring, as evidenced by his conviction that two pointy stones are a hound, and I suspect that when we met in London, he handed me the phone number of the woman on the train because he could not see to call it himself. It is my conclusion that Sir Henry is not going mad at all. He is being poisoned.”

The physician stiffened but Lady Beryl merely looked concerned. Sherlock continued.

“In my buttonhole I have a foxglove flower from Lady Beryl’s garden, also known as digitalis, which when used correctly combats heart disease but when used incorrectly can result in confusion, depression, disorientation, hallucinations, blurred vision, and seeing halos, although the halo effect is usually found only in those who have been poisoned over a period of time—“

“Wait,” the physician interrupted. Henry was as white as a sheet. “Mr. Holmes, who would deliberately do this to Sir Henry. Please tell me you are not making an accusation against anyone in this room.”

“Ah. Accusations. Let’s wait on that a bit, shall we? Cook!”

Sherlock turned to the cook, who startled and then looked attentive.

“Cook, have you brought the remains of last night’s stew?”

“I have, sir,” she said, and offered the first of two plastic bins.

Sherlock waved her over to the police and she handed it to one of the officers.

“Last night’s stew was made from the leftovers of the last rabbit dinner. I recommend that the rabbit meat be tested for foxglove poisoning as young Emily routinely takes the rabbits for outings among the flowers where they are likely nibbling on Lady Beryl’s foxglove. The rabbits ingest bits of the poison and one could theorize that the cumulative effect of ingesting poisoned rabbit meat could result in a build up of digitalis toxicity in the system. Lady Beryl is a vegetarian and cook has told me she prepares rabbit only for Sir Henry and that she and the servants rarely consume it, preferring chicken. Emily, of course, never touches it. Sir Henry would be the main consumer of rabbit.”

There was a general exhalation of relief and wonder at Sherlock’s words. Only John, Sherlock, and the police seemed to feel that there was more to be added.

“So, a bizarre and unfortunate situation, but one remedied by the brilliance of Sherlock Holmes, then,” the physician said heartily, and everyone seemed to take a deep breath and prepare to congratulate Sherlock on his deduction, and Henry on his salvation.

“But wait.” Said Sherlock, and John began to smile in anticipation.

“The first thing one might ask is whether a physician might have been expected to be able to tell the difference between madness and poisoning, and the answer of course is yes, a reputable physician would have known fairly quickly, which leads one to ask whether Dr. Stapleton, is it? Dr. Stapleton overlooked this distinction by accident on or on purpose. No one half-way through med school should have overlooked this. On purpose then. But is this attempted murder? I say no, this is merely a protracted scheme to have Sir Henry declared insane and his wife put in control of the estate. But why would the doctor do such a thing unless he is romantically involved with the wife. The wife, who is a vegetarian but makes no objection to her husband keeping rabbits for food. The wife, who befriended a lonely child and urged her to take the rabbits into the gardens where the foxglove grows. The wife, who needed an independent and highly visible witness – myself – to ascertain that her husband was going mad. The wife, who makes all their salads. Cook! You have in the other bin the leftover salad from Sir Henry’s dinner last night. Please give it to the police. Testing will show that the salad is the true source of the poison that is slowly driving Sir Henry mad. The rabbits were merely the alibi should anyone suspect the truth. Are there any questions? No? Good. Officers, I suggest you arrest Lady Beryl, however if you wish to wait until after testing the salad it is of course up to you but I suspect you’ll find that if you wait, she and the physician will flee the country.”

Lady Beryl was on her feet, nostrils flared with rage. There was nothing gentle about her now. Dr. Stapleton was hunched forward, both hands over his open mouth. Sir Henry was looking up at his wife like a child whose trust has been betrayed. John was looking at Sherlock like the sun rose out of his curls each morning.

_That. Was. Amazing._

YES. WELL.

_But are you sure??_

OF COURSE. I READ HER MIND.

_Oh, that’s cheating._

NO, I DEDUCED IT FIRST, THEN I READ HER MIND TO CHECK. REALLY JOHN, IT’S BORING OTHERWISE.

The police were taking Lady Beryl and the physician away. The housekeeper and the cook were hovering over Sir Henry, clearly distressed but trying to comfort him. Sherlock and John drew together near a window.

“Wait, you could have figured this out yesterday, the minute we met her?” John asked.

“Certainly,” Sherlock preened, plucking the foxglove out of his buttonhole and tossing it aside.

“You mean you let her poison him some more, let him stumble around all last night terrified, and suffer all this morning, when you could have ended it yesterday??” John persisted.

Sherlock looked down at him. “Really, John, a moment ago you said that was cheating.”

“But Sherlock, this was a man’s life at stake!”

“So if I read their minds I’m cheating and if I don’t I’m being uncaring. There’s no way to make you happy, John.”

“This isn’t about making me happy, Sherlock!” John snapped, and stomped away from him.

Sherlock stared after him, thinking that actually it was about making John happy. At least, partly. Then he sighed. Clearly I can’t do anything right, he sulked. He complains if I tie him up and he complains if I drug him. Complains if I have sex with him in his sleep and complains if I wake him up first. Honestly, this is why he’d hesitated to take a thrall. They’re just difficult.

Sherlock wallowed in self-pity a moment longer, and then out of the corner of his eye, saw out the window that John was crossing the lawn toward the garden.

John stepped into the garden, searching around for a small, black-clad figure. She wasn’t there. He came out and circled the house, and finally he found her near the sheds, holding a large rabbit in her arms, and staring at the police cars that were just now pulling out of the drive, taking Lady Beryl with them.

Clearly, someone needed to break the news to Emily that someone had betrayed her. Someone she had thought cared about her. John felt he was more than qualified.


	12. Vamplock Ch 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's thinking. Sherlock's deducing. Could be dangerous!

Sherlock came out of the manor and across the green to find John attempting to explain developments to a somber little girl in the gentlest possible terms.

“Well, Emily, sometimes people do things and we don’t understand why. Not everyone is exactly what they seem to be—“

Emily was clutching Lucy and eyeing John impatiently.

Sherlock decided it would help to be more succinct. “Lady Beryl was poisoning Sir Henry and your rabbits so everyone would think eating rabbits was making him sick, but really it wasn’t. Well, not much.”

Emily’s mouth fell open. John gave Sherlock a glare, but before he could begin scolding, the back door of the manor house opened and Sir Henry lurched out, still in his bedclothes, with a quilted silk robe over top, and his manservant Bates following helplessly. He charged across the lawn toward the shed and his face was contorted with sobs.

John watched in astonishment, Emily in wonder, and Sherlock calmly, as Sir Henry threw open the door of the shed and went inside. There was a series of clatters and cries, and incoherent sobs, and then a stream of two dozen or so rabbits came scampering out of the shed and headed straight across the lawn at top speed for Lady Beryl’s garden, where they vanished into the vegetable patch.

“And they lived happily ever after.” Sherlock said dryly.

Sir Henry staggered out of the shed and burst into renewed sobs. Bates attempted to soothe him and guide him back to the house, and the housekeeper came out to help.

Lucy, apparently unnerved by the histrionics, began kicking in Emily’s arms, and the girl released the rabbit. It darted across the lawn into the garden with the others. Then they all watched the servants grapple Sir Henry back to the house.

“Lee be orait?” Emily asked.

John shook his head. He’d probably get his sanity back, but his heart and liver were undoubtedly damaged long term due to the toxicity of the plants. But John didn’t want to say that to a 9 year old. He took a deep breath and said, “I don’t know, Emily. He’s very hurt. He was poisoned by someone who claimed to care about him.” John gave Sherlock a pointed look. “Someone who pretended to want love, but really wanted control.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes briefly. My God, John could carry a grudge.

“Ood she rilly love, ven?”

“The doctor.” Sherlock said immediately, and Emily’s mouth twisted in distaste.

“Ee ad a mustesh.”

“Mm. I suppose our work here is finished.” JOHN, MEET ME AT THE CAR.

John said good-bye to Emily and walked away. Sherlock waited till John was out of earshot and then withdrew his wallet from his coat’s breast pocket and retrieved one of his rarely-seen business cards. He held it out to Emily in his long fingers.

“Look me up when you’re 18, if you want, and I’ll turn you into a vampire,” he offered lightly.

Emily took the card and fixed her eyes on him.

“Why kent yuh tun mienta vampai now?” She asked suspiciously.

“Because then you’d never get any taller.”

She put the card carefully into her dress pocket. “Oret thin.” She said, and turned and ran across the grass toward the garden. Sherlock watched her go with an approving look, and then turned to join John at the car.

On the drive to the train station, Sherlock noted with satisfaction that the sky was getting dark in the West. Clouds over London. It’s going to rain, he thought with anticipation.

John slept the whole way back on the train. Sherlock sat across from him till he nodded off, and then slipped over next to him so he could pull John to him and let his head lean on Sherlock’s shoulder (and Sherlock could sniff his hair). He wondered if John was sleeping off the last traces of thralldom, and whether, when he woke, he would still respond to Sherlock’s mental commands. He hoped they weren’t back to square one, threats and restraints and manipulation. Just give in, John, he brooded, staring out at the passing scenery. Don’t make me desperate.

 

 

When they returned to the flat and opened the door (HOME!) _(Your home)_ (YOUR HOME TOO, JOHN) _(Do I have a choice?)_ (ACTUALLY, NO) _(Then it’s not a home, it’s a cage.)_ (SHALL I PUT SOME STRAW DOWN?) _(Oh, funny vampire.)_ Mrs. Hudson was happy to see them, and had even vacuumed the rug while they were gone, and made a run to Tesco for milk.

John thanked her and she beamed, noting that he seemed more like himself again, and she hoped that meant all was well. Sherlock had been so lonely before, and lonely vampires tend to play the violin in the middle of the night.

They unpacked, and settled in. John made tea and sat down to update his blog. Sherlock changed into a t-shirt and pajama bottoms even though it was barely dusk, and stretched out on the couch with a happy sigh. After a moment, he returned to staring at photos of the hanged victims, focusing particularly on the area beneath their dangling feet. He looked over at John, picking away methodically at the keyboard, and felt a surge of contentment.

This was good. This was home. The only thing that would be a little better would be John stretched out at his side, maybe naked. Sherlock put the photos aside and lay drumming his fingers on his chest. Mm, yes, naked and warm and held tight in Sherlock’s arms, their legs entwined, rubbing against each other as Sherlock sank his fangs into… where, this time? Neck is always a favorite. Makes John swoony… but chest is nice because John cradled Sherlock like a baby when he did that. Nape is good, too, very sexy way of establishing dominance, and a horny vampire could plunge right into his victim at the same time. Mmm… just contemplating the possibilities made Sherlock feel all warm and affectionate inside.

“Jo-ohn,” he said in his deepest, most velvety voice, and John cut a side-eye at him.

_I know that voice._

“Bored, John.” Sherlock told him, and gave a suggestive squirm on the couch.

John got up from his laptop. He stepped over to the coffee table, picked up the remote control to the television, handed it to Sherlock, and returned to his laptop without a word.

Sherlock looked at the remote. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Watch the telly and let me update my blog?”

“Boring.”

“Oh. Well. You could always pretend it’s covered with a layer of delicious chocolate and your job is to remove it with your mouth.” John said, still typing steadily.

MM. SOMEONE IS STILL UPSET.

“Give you a bit of déjà vu, does it?” John breathed testily, still not looking at Sherlock.

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer and then suddenly something in his brain clicked. Déjà vu. When had he felt that? Sherlock laid the remote aside and did a mental search. Nothing. Hm. He pressed his hands together, closed his eyes, and fell into a trance-like posture as his mind rapidly clicked backwards over the last 48 hours. Déjà vu. Recently. Must have been Devonshire… Ah, I was in the garden. Emily said my shoes were ruined. I said they were wet already. That sentence made me think of…of... John. At the bed and breakfast. Sitting at the bar. He spilled the beer. It went into the sink. The barkeep said it was wet already. John stared at it like John stares at… the crime scene photos. The crime scene photos. The hanged victims. There was nothing under their feet. And the killer only does it when it rains because then… it is wet already. Sherlock gasped and opened his eyes.

ICE!

John stopped typing and turned in his chair. They looked at each other.

“Ice!” Sherlock repeated, out loud this time. He swung his feet around to the floor and sat up with a bounce.

“They’re standing on ice!” Sherlock cried out.

Comprehension dawned on John’s face “and when it melts—“

“They strangle!”

“That would take a long time—“

“Not if it isn’t a solid block.”

“It could be hollow..” John mused.

“If the murderer takes into account the temperature, he can modify the thickness and control how many hours it will take before the victim’s feet break through, or the ice shape falls apart—“

“And by the time the police arrive there’s no trace. The ice has melted and no one notices because it’s raining, so…

And they said it together “… it was wet already.”

They sat for a moment, caught up in the wonder of it all, and then John urged, “Call Lestrade!”

“Mmm… no.” Sherlock said, and lay back down, placing his hands in steeple form again.

John gaped at him. “Why not??”

Sherlock shrugged. “It really doesn’t tell us anything. Alright, so the murderer uses ice. So? Does that knowledge lead us to him, or help us warn the public? Anyone can freeze water, and I doubt it will help to issue a warning to beware of strange men lugging around a large block of ice and a long rope.”

“Oh.” John looked deflated.

Sherlock sat back up again. “Unless there is something about the ice that tells us something.”

John thought back. “You asked me about phosphorus.”

Sherlock gave him a startled look. “You really do remember everything, don’t you,” he murmured, and John stiffened and then turned back to his laptop coolly.

_I certainly do._ And sent Sherlock a good whiff of rotten bananas.

Sherlock winced and then sailed over the coffee table and to the desk where his laptop was. At least now he had something to go on. The soil samples from the pasture, and the photos of the concrete at the ballpark were at least a place to start. Phosphorus. It had eaten away at the crack in the concrete, that was why it was wider under the body. It discoloured the grass.

Sherlock researched the phosphorus content of various bodies of water internationally, feeling the pleasant hum of a mystery to solve. A real mystery, not some silly woman poisoning her husband (that happened all the time.) A vampire mystery… for if this was Moriarty, and Sherlock felt certain it was… there would be no reading his mind to confirm or deny, or even take a shortcut. This was pure logic, pure deduction, and Sherlock fairly glowed with it.

Outside, the clouds thickened over London. Tomorrow, it would definitely rain. Maybe even tonight.

John finished updating his blog (The Case of the Killer Rabbits!), and decided to fix himself some dinner. Picking through the refrigerator, he found that Mrs. Hudson had considerately picked up some vegetables and butter, and John was soon puttering around contentedly enough.

“Tea?” He called in at Sherlock (MMM- that meant yes) and John shook his head at himself for slipping so easily back into … whatever this was. _Alright,_ he said to himself as he filled the kettle and plugged it in, _let’s review, shall we? I’ve been kidnapped, assaulted, threatened, restrained, molested, exploited, drugged, beaten, tortured, and abused..._

YOU’VE HAD ELEVEN ORGASMS IN EIGHT DAYS, BEATING ANY RECORD YOU’VE HELD SINCE YOUR EARLY 20S.

John smoldered and chopped up a green pepper.

Sherlock smiled, scenting a combination of woodsmoke and incense. Oh, you’re not THAT upset, are you?

AND IT COULD HAVE BEEN TWELVE IF YOU’D SLEPT WITH ME LAST NIGHT.

“We were guests, Sherlock,” John called into the sitting room. “Guests don’t leave messes in the guest bedrooms.”

Sherlock left off his research for a moment and came to hover in the kitchen. “Was that the reason?” He asked in mild astonishment. “I thought you were angry with me.”

John sputtered, “I was! I am! I… Sherlock, you drugged me! You’re just like… one of those creepy guys who put pills in women’s drinks at the club!”

Sherlock drew himself up. “I did it to protect you.”

John slapped the knife down on the cutting board and turned on him. “How the Hell does being a zombie protect me?!”

HAVE YOU NOTICED WE CAN COMMUNICATE WITH EACH OTHER TELEPATHICALLY OVER DISTANCES?

_Have you noticed you only use it to order me around from farther away??_

“It’s going to be useful one day, John. I’m sure of it.” KETTLE’S BOILING.

John turned the kettle off with a snap and slammed two mugs down on the worktop.

“Only if it keeps working,” John pointed out as he made their tea.

Sherlock gave a conceding nod.

“So if it stops working, and you want it to work again, you’ll have to do it again and I’ll have to go through another 2-3 days feeling like I’m on a Prozac cocktail—“

“No,” Sherlock interrupted. “No, it wouldn’t have to be that way again.”

“Why not?” John demanded, taking his tea and returning to the green peppers. If the way he was chopping them was any indication, this would be a very bad time to make a sexual advance, Sherlock thought idly.

“Because I… may have… overdosed you that first time.”

John looked at him, tipped his head, and grabbed another pepper, because he just needed something to chop right now. The woodsmoke was taking on a rather nasty smell, Sherlock noticed. Like burning hair.

“… Not intentional, John.”

“Oh, no, you didn’t know what you were doing.” John scoffed, gutting the pepper and ripping out its core with a savagery that made Sherlock… a little aroused, actually.

Sherlock sighed and sat down at the kitchen table. “John, I don’t make a habit of this.”

“Of what? Kidnapping, rape, torture…?” (Chop! Chop! Chop!)

This was definitely not the time to try and get a little blood from John. Unless he wanted to just wait till John accidentally chopped off a finger, which looked like it was coming in three… two…

“Whose skull is that?” John asked suddenly, laying down the knife.

Sherlock actually swallowed. Oh. Okay. Here we go.

“Victor,” he said huskily, eyes on the table.

“Who was Victor?”

“Can I have some tea?”

“No. Who was Victor?”

Sherlock got very still.

_Was he your lover?_ (Suddenly, it was easier to do this silently.)

YES

_Was he a vampire?_

NO

_Was he your thrall?_

YES

_Did you… did you… did he die because of something you did?_

Silence.

 

John put a hand to his mouth and turned his back. _I am so fucked._ For a moment, he just stood there. Then he took a deep breath and reminded himself that whatever the future, he wasn’t dead yet, so let’s not start digging. He scooped up all the mutilated peppers and put them in a bowl.

When he finally turned back around, Sherlock was sitting uncharacteristically still and quiet. John sighed and poured him a cup of tea, and put in the sugar for him.

“It was a long time ago, John. I hadn’t been a vampire for very long and I didn’t really know what I was doing.”

“Still don’t.”

Silence. Sherlock got up, took his tea, and went back to his laptop. It was obvious to both that the conversation wasn’t over yet, but both were suddenly ready to let it sink until later. John pulled himself together and made his stir fry. He ate in the kitchen, surfing the internet and refreshing his blog periodically, watching the number of hits climb.

When John finished eating and cleaned up the kitchen, Sherlock was still engrossed in his laptop. John stayed at the table, contemplating his gut reactions. He wished he could think it through, but if he put anything into words, Sherlock would hear it, or read it, or whatever he did. There was no privacy even in John’s head.

Unless he didn’t use words. Oh, he knew Sherlock could pick up on moods in some way, but emotions were far less penetrable to the vampire than words, anyone could see that. John took a breath and decided to see if he could meditate on his situation without Sherlock hearing something he would feel compelled to comment on.

John closed his laptop, pushed it aside, and rested his arms on the table. He bowed his head a bit and closed his eyes and let his mind rest on… simply a contemplation of his own inner state at the moment. He searched his body for pain or discomfort and found none. Then he searched the flat. He let his mind drift around the kitchen and waited to see how his gut reacted to what his mind observed.

He mentally opened the refrigerator door and viewed the inside, remembering with honest fidelity the items therein, bags of blood and pieces of random flesh that Sherlock was doing God-knows-what with. His mind’s eye stared at the bags of blood and contemplated the possibility that for the rest of his life… and then he tuned into his stomach, checking to see if it reared uneasily, or if stress stabbed a pain through it. Finding little reaction, he drifted mentally away from the refrigerator and perused the kitchen. It was rather an attractive kitchen. Not modern by any means, but it had character.

John left the kitchen. Well, his body didn’t. His body remained motionless at the table, eyes closed. But his mind went into the sitting room, pondered the mess of Sherlock’s books and papers, the mismatched but comfortable, quality furniture. The violin by the window. That wallpaper, my, my. His gut registered nothing but affectionate familiarity (already). He took a tour of the bedrooms, and admittedly, his stress level started to rise.

Sex with Sherlock was still a bit of a blood pressure event.

Finally, almost reluctantly, his mind came to the spider at the center of the web. Sherlock. Mentally, he drifted around Sherlock.

In the sitting room, Sherlock paused in his research as he became aware of a charged silence from the kitchen. His antennas were suddenly up. Silence from the kitchen. Physical silence, mental silence… Sherlock was actually unnerved enough to turn very quietly in his seat and look.

There was John, sitting at the table, arms before him, head down, stock still. Sherlock watched, lifting his head slightly to try and scent the mood.

For a moment, he couldn’t – oh, there it was. Very faint. Vanilla? Sherlock tried to access a visual from John’s mind, but all he got were vague, floating images from the flat around him. At first he was impatient. Was John having some sort of out-of-body experience?

Then suddenly he saw himself, from outside. It was a very clear picture. No, it was a series of images. First, his own face was looking down at him. Then a fuzzy shot of the top of his head, and all the dark curls, with a man’s hand (John’s) buried in them. Then a very close image of his lips. Then his eyes as if he were staring into a mirror. Then his naked shoulder, as if seen from someone held in a close embrace.

Suddenly, John’s mind fled the flat and returned to a place Sherlock had never seen, but knew instinctively was the dreary bedsit he’d mocked the night before on the moors. Then the clinic, with its corridors and cabinets. Then he was taken on a brief, dizzying tour of John’s life, a series of images that hit one after another in that fluttering riffle of cards being shuffled.

Afghanistan, med school, uni, a hospital, a small house (parents?) a rather cluttered, featureless flat (girlfriend?) and then suddenly they were back here, and Sherlock was staring at the kitchen table.

Then John raised his head, and Sherlock quickly turned back to his laptop, unsure of what he’d just seen. But still the faint scent of vanilla hovered in the air.

Sherlock pretended to stare at his laptop, but really, his entire being was focused on the man who was leaving the kitchen and coming up behind him. Then he felt warm hands land gently on his shoulders. Squeeze (oh, that felt good). John’s thumbs dug firmly into the muscles between Sherlock’s shoulder blades and began pressing the flesh into small, slow circles. Sherlock’s tum melted like honey. John massaged him quietly for several minutes, and then the hands slowed and stilled, gradually, not jarring.

Keeping one hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, John stepped around in front of him, and turned his chair a bit. Then John straddled Sherlock’s legs, pulled off his own shirt, and sat down without a word.

They stared into one another’s eyes for a minute, and Sherlock searched John’s mind and… it wasn’t that there was nothing there, it was that Sherlock couldn’t read it. It seemed like everything he’d ever smelled from John had become one faint potpourri of smoke and spice, and a little leather, and a little citrus.

Before Sherlock could process it, John put his hands on either side of that slender, odd, bony face, and leaned forward and kissed him on the lips. Not fearlessly, but like someone who can’t stay away from fearful things. Sherlock closed his eyes in bliss. Then John pulled back slightly, and firmly guided Sherlock’s mouth to a spot high on John’s neck, up under his ear. A place anyone could see. John pressed Sherlock’s face tight in, and when the fangs sank in, dug his fingers luxuriously into Sherlock’s hair. Then he pressed his pelvis against the vampire, and Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and the two squeezed tightly together, rubbing themselves slowly against each other. Rocking.

After a moment, John slid a finger to Sherlock’s lips and pushed ever so carefully into the corner until Sherlock unlatched, and licked. Then John guided him to the other side of his neck, placing him where he wanted. Sherlock felt like his own blood was singing. He sank in again and they rocked against one another like they were riding waves together. Sherlock let John guide him silently from spot to spot, drinking a slow trickle when he was pressed in, obediently withdrawing when John’s finger pushed into his mouth. Neck. Shoulders. Chest. And they ground their hips together languidly at first, and then faster as they grew warmer.

Finally, when they were both very near the edge, John returned his lips to Sherlock’s and kissed him as they rutted against one another and grew hungry enough to reach down and fumble, and grab, and stroke one another. John came first, and Sherlock once again used his warm wetness to make himself slick, and let John take him in one hand and pull his head close with the other, and pump him till he came. He buried his teeth in John’s shoulder and groaned into him.

When they recovered enough to move, John led Sherlock into the bedroom and they got naked into the bed. They lay in the darkness together for a bit, letting their heart rates return to normal.

Then Sherlock rolled over on top of John and whispered, “Do you want another taste? Just a little this time. Just a little. I’ll be very, very careful.”

John lay looking up at him, his eyes searching the small, pale (beautiful) ones looking back at him.

COULD BE DANGEROUS.

John pulled Sherlock down to him, and they kissed again.

Outside, the rain started in earnest.


	13. Vamplock Ch 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock are in this together.

John awoke with a start, certain that Sherlock wanted him for something. He rolled over, but the bed was empty. The early morning was dark and bleak, and the rain was coming down. He got up, aware somehow that Sherlock was by the window, holding his violin but not playing it.

_Going to shower. Why don’t you put the kettle on for a change?_

He could actually sense Sherlock moving to the kitchen… or was his hearing just better? John didn’t know, but he showered and dressed quickly, because there was a feeling in the air.

When he entered the kitchen, tea was on and Sherlock (dressed already) gave a meaningful look towards John’s laptop. John logged in and oh my, his blog was a hotbed of activity. The Killer Rabbit story had over a quarter of a million hits and there were hundreds of comments. He couldn’t begin to read them all.

“Woo,” was all he could say.

“Indeed.”

YOU’D BETTER EAT. SOMETHING IS ABOUT TO HAPPEN.

John went straight to the fridge and dug out the eggs. He made the fastest scrambled mess he’d ever created and shoveled it down as Sherlock went to the sitting room and turned on the telly. Then—

JOHN--

Sherlock’s phone started buzzing, and then John’s did too. They ended up at opposites ends of the flat, each with a finger in one ear and a phone to the other, trying to concentrate on their call. Sherlock’s was from Lestrade; John’s was from Harry. The conversations seemed to mingle.

“There’s another and this time he’s going public.”

“Is the link on John’s blog?”

“Oh my God, my little brother is famous!”

“I wouldn’t say that—“

“Have you seen the news this morning??”

“Yes, it’s one of the first comments. It says Watch This Space and there’s a link to a website that’s basically a live cam. All the news stations are on it—“

“Alright, just a moment—“ Sherlock came back into the kitchen to John’s laptop and John passed him leaving the kitchen to go to the window and look down.

“Bloody Hell, there’s reporters in the street.”

“I told you! Fame. Apparently this crazy guy’s got another hostage.”

“Oh, Jesus.”

“It’s really a bad one, Sherlock. Pretty young woman, has a small child at home—“

“I see her. Blonde, shivering in the rain, has a noose, background looks… gray. Is that a waterline?”

“Yeah, it looks like it—“

Downstairs the doorbell rang, and John darted to the door of the flat to look down at Mrs. Hudson, who was going toward the door, and give a frantic No, No, gesture with his free hand. Her eyes widened and she twisted her hands nervously together. John motioned her back toward her own flat and she went without a word. John returned to the window.

“Go look now, she’s on now! She’s on Channel 4, look, look.”

“Okay. Look. Harry… be careful.”

“ME be careful?? Oh my God, John.”

John and Sherlock crossed each other again, John going from the window to the television, Sherlock from the laptop to the window.

“I’m sending someone to pick you and John up.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Sherlock, I need you HERE. That website says this woman’s got 3 hours and the entire nation is going to watch her strangle when—“

“When the ice she’s standing on melts, yes, I know.”

Sherlock looked down at the sleek black car that just pulled up. Two umbrellas got out, and from the respectful way the paparazzi and reporters stepped back a pace or two, they must have been formidable.

Doorbell—JOHN TELL MRS HUDSON YES—John back to the door motioning yes, go, Mrs. Hudson nervously wringing hands, goes to door, door opens, burly bodyguard beckons up at John, John nods, holds up one finger (wait)—

“I have to go, Harry—“

“About 10 minutes.” BRING YOUR GUN, JOHN.

And then coats on, collars up, and out the door, down the stairs, out into the rain, past the reporters, into the car, so nice to see Mycroft again (not. Oh, actually not unwelcome at a time like this, not really. Use all the help you can--) car door slams shut...

“So.” Said Mycroft into the sudden, soundproofed silence of the car. “I see the two of you have worked out a more equitable and cooperative alliance,” Mycroft’s voice was calm as they sped down the street. John and Sherlock both seemed finally to breathe.

Something about Mycroft’s deliberate and unruffled manner made it all seem a little less frantic.

Sherlock looked out the window, but John turned to Mycroft.

“Have you heard of this Moriarty?” He asked.

Mycroft took a considering inhalation and sighed. “I have. Thus far he has managed to blur his path such that I cannot legally move against him. Bearing this in mind, I would warn you, brother,” he looked over John’s head to the other vampire, “he is no silly woman poisoning her husband. This is a dangerous game.”

“He wants me to solve these crimes, Mycroft. He’s enjoying it.”

“Are you certain mere playfulness is his only motivation? Men like Moriarty are not known for their frivolity.”

Sherlock returned to staring out the window, and then they were at New Scotland Yard, and exiting in the rain.

“Keep me informed, brother.”

Sherlock went off without a word or promise, but John had a sudden feeling. Turning to Mycroft, who peered at him through the window, John brandished his own cellphone. Text me, he mouthed, and Mycroft gave him the briefest of nods before the window raised smoothly and hid him behind the rain dripped glass.

John followed Sherlock inside. REALLY JOHN, THAT WAS UNNECESSARY.

_I’ll be the judge of that._

MONSTER I’VE CREATED—“Hold the lift!!” Sherlock boomed out, and he and John crowded in and ascended to Lestrade’s floor.

 

 

In Lestrade’s office, surrounded by the best (HA-- _Keep it to yourself…_ ) of New Scotland Yard, Donovan, Anderson, and several others, Sherlock explained.

“The victims are standing on ice, the ice melts and they strangle, he can time it at will but he needed rain to wash away the evidence, and also to melt the ice quickly.”

Sally Donovan spoke up, “But what kind of evidence is ice, really? So he freezes water, are we looking for anyone with a really big freezer? I mean, come on.”

Sherlock sent her a contemptuous glance. “The ice has a high phosphorus count, higher than any local water. It matches most closely with water from Lake Khanka, in the north of China. Freshwater, but very near the Pacific.”

Everyone looked at him blankly, except John, who merely waited expectantly.

“Did you text that to our murderer? Maybe that’s what he’s after,” Lestrade said quickly. “Try it! Last time all you had to do was text “Irene Adler” and suddenly we had a story with a happy ending, and a press conference I didn’t hate.”

GO AHEAD, JOHN—“But somehow, I doubt it,” Sherlock added. As John texted,

_How do you spell it?_

OH HONESTLY, K-H-A...

Lestrade turned on the LED and projected the image from the killer’s live, streaming website onto the wall. Donovan switched off the lights and they all stared at the blonde woman shivering in the rain and crying silently as they waited for the response.

“She’s near the coast,” Anderson opined, and they all looked at him for a minute.

“Really? Is that what you deduce from the large gray body of water behind her?” Sherlock said in clipped tones, and they all turned back to stare at the image. There was so little to see. Woman, visible from about elbows up. Arms obviously tied behind her. Rope going up behind her, almost taut, and disappearing off screen, hooked to who knew what. Behind her, gray sky and gray water.

“No shadow over her,” Donovan noted, and Sherlock tipped his head back slightly and glanced at her as if perhaps she wasn’t too stupid to live after all.

John’s phone buzzed and necks nearly broke as everyone whipped around to look at him. He read the text in stilted tones. “Very Good. Good Boy. What Else?”

Sherlock paced the room several times and then froze. “Oh, God. Oh, of course. Of course!”

Lestrade gave him that raised eyebrow care-to-fucking-share look. Sherlock turned to them. “Lake Khanka, north China! Border of China and RUSSIA! And look,” he pointed to the woman’s image on the wall. “On the water! No shadows!”

It was John who remembered first, probably because it was his first exposure to Sherlock’s deductive powers, and because he was the one who wrote it up on the blog. “The Russian ship. The sea captain…” he was practically stammering trying to get it out. “And the other, the old world guy, the…. He had a garlic flower— shipping…“

Sherlock whirled on Lestrade. “Where is that abandoned ship now?” He demanded.

“Uh… impound.” Lestrade said.

“Let’s go.” And they were all on their way to the carpark.

 

 

They took two cars. Sally, Anderson, and two detectives John didn’t know in one car. He and Sherlock rode with Lestrade. At the impound wharves there was a frantic bit of drama trying to ascertain the name and location of the ship. The fellow on duty had no idea what they were talking about and seemed positive that no Russian ship was impounded on the premises.

“It had a Russian name on it!” Lestrade shouted.

“Alright, well, what was the name?” The clerk asked quite reasonably.

“Hell, I don’t speak Russian!” sputtered Lestrade, and then he put a hand into his silver hair. “It was short. It looked like … Mee-ha, or Nee-ha.”

“Can you write what it looked like?” The clerk was still imperturbably calm. Lestrade grabbed a pencil and a scrap of paper and wrote MNHA.

Sherlock looked over his shoulder. “Mina. Oh, nice touch.”

The clerk said, “Wait. Let me get Lawrence.”

So now they were waiting for someone named Lawrence. Lestrade looked like a time bomb. In a moment, a thin young man with sandy hair and spectacles came out and said, “Oh, yes! Mina. Oh, that was an interesting one. She wasn’t really Russian, you know, that’s why Bernard didn’t know what you were talking about. Very old ship, very old. Actually a British cargo steamer from … oh, long ago… 1950s! Tyne shipbuilders. I had to research for hours to figure out who’s really responsible for it. It was made by John Readhead & Sons Ltd of South Shields. Actually sold for scrap in 1974, everyone thought she was dismantled.”

“Who bought it?” Sherlock asked.

Lawrence sat down at the computer on the intake desk and started typing. “Oh, we’re still trying to figure that out. Its name has changed so many times, finally I logged it in under its original name… Amazing it was, this whole thing … and it was just floating off the coast with a dead man alone on it? Fascinating, you know, all we found in the hold were blocks of ice. Who transports ice?” He laughed.

Donovan finally snapped, “Well, there’s a woman being strangled on that ship right this minute, so could you stop chattering and help us find it?”

“Oh.” Lawrence pushed up his glasses. “Sorry. Alright. The original name was something really weird. Hold on.”

He typed and the detectives hovered at the counter and stared over it at him.

“Oh, here it is. The S.S. Baskerville. Pier 23.”

John was suddenly chilled all over. He and Sherlock exchanged an uneasy glance. No fucking way was that a coincidence. Looking back, why had Henry Baskerville come to Sherlock Holmes? Why not someone closer to home? Who had directed him, and even Emily, to contact Sherlock?

DON’T FORGET THE PARENTS OF THE KIDNAPPED GIRL.

John stared at him.

REMEMBER? THEY WENT TO LESTRADE BECAUSE HE WOULD KNOW WHOM TO CALL.

_Oh, fuck. We are so fucked._

Sherlock drifted away from the rest of them and stared out the window. John could sense that, for Sherlock, all the fun had just gone out of this little endeavor.

Lestrade broke into their thoughts. “Pier 23, let’s go!” He called, holding the door for them.

 

 

The abandoned ship loomed, rust-streaked and spooky, on the gray water. The two unmarked cars pulled up and the on-duty impound dock watch captain came from a small trailer parked on the pier with a phone in his hand. “Yes, I understand,” he was saying.

He waved at them to follow him and led them up the ladder that stretched out over the water and led to the quarterdeck. “I don’t know how anyone would get on here, must have come up with a tug and gone up the side, somehow, I don’t know,” he said rather nervously. “I mean, we have folks on duty but people sneaking onto these ships aren’t usually an issue unless it was drugs, and by the time we get ‘em—“

Lestrade hushed him and the detectives drew their guns.

DON’T BOTHER, JOHN. IF THIS IS ANOTHER DRAMATIC RESCUE, HE WANTS US TO HAVE IT.

Lestrade explained the view on the web cam, and the watch captain led them to a ladder. “Sounds like she’s on one of the upper decks, starboard side, from your description.” Then he hung back uneasily as the detectives, and John and Sherlock, surged up the ladder and fanned out on the open deck. The rain had stopped and the ocean breeze blew cold across the ship, which smelled of salt water and rust. The sky was a low, gray sheet over their heads.

They turned this way and that, searching the cluttered deck, stepping over coils of thick, salt-crusted rope. Sherlock looked up, sighted the ship’s crane, and followed it with his eyes. The hook hovered low near the starboard side. From it, dangled a long piece of rope that disappeared behind a stack of wooden crates. The vampire made for the crates. John turned to see, and followed, and within seconds the entire group was there, supporting the gasping woman, whose feet had already begun to slip on the ice. A few feet away, a silent video camera recorded the dramatic rescue on a live, streaming website flooded with hits. This one was going international.

Sherlock looked into the camera for a long minute.

MYCROFT IS RIGHT. THERE’S A REASON HE’S DOING THIS.

John turned to the woman, who was nearly in shock. She was freezing, her lips were blue, her throat was slightly abraided, and like the other, she was too confused to be of much help. He wrapped his arms around her and guided her into an open storage room on the ship, out of the wind. There was a chair to put her in, and John held her freezing hand and waited with her. Lestrade was on the phone communicating with the ambulance on the pier, directing them to come up and help stabilize her before trying to lead a shaking, fainting woman down a ladder that hovered over water.

John stayed with the shaking blonde until the medics arrived, and then straightened, realizing how cold his hands were. He glanced around at the scene, which seemed to fill with more people all the time: detectives, medical personnel, impound employees. He looked for the long, black coat.

He couldn’t see Sherlock.

He cast around for him in his mind and felt that Sherlock was not close to him. John went to the rail, looking down on the pier. There went Sherlock striding away.

_Where are you going??_

Sherlock turned and looked up at him.

STAY THERE.

Then he turned again and kept walking. John wanted to turn and run to the ladder, fly down to the pier and follow him, but something told him to keep watching. At the end of the pier, a red car pulled up and two men got out. One was short and dark, and even from this distance he looked like a vampire. The other was tall and blond, and looked very much like Sebastian Moran. They waited and Sherlock walked up to them. The two vampires spoke for a moment, and then to John’s horror, Sherlock got into the car quite willingly. And off it drove.

John ran down the ladder, got to the end of the pier as fast as he could, and watched the red car. It wasn’t leaving the impound wharves. It was headed for a warehouse nearby.

“It’s always a warehouse,” John breathed. Then he pulled out his gun and started after the red car on foot.

 

 

“Right this way, Sherlock Holmes, you ARE the guest of honor,” said the small, wild-eyed vampire that was Jim Moriarty. Sherlock followed Moriarty, noticing out of the corner of his eye that the human who accompanied them had not followed once inside the warehouse. There was no threat. No hint of coercion. Only Sherlock’s curiosity, and an uneasy feeling that Moriarty must be heard out or there would be no peace, kept him following the other vampire through the loading area of the warehouse, beyond the boxes and metal storage bin frames, the parked forklifts and general mess. In the back of the warehouse sat what looked like the loading crew’s break area. Nothing fancy, just a long table, chairs around it, vending machines nearby… and a video camera all set up, its red light on, its eye pointed toward two empty seats.

Moriarty sat on one side of the table and offered Sherlock a seat on the other. Sherlock stood for a moment and stared at the video camera. Moriarty made a bit of a face.

“Yes, it’s live! But no, it’s not for the general public. This is special, Sherlock. This feed is only available to one very special person. Don’t worry!” He gushed. “You look fabulous.”

Sherlock hesitated.

“It’s like a conference call.” Moriarty explained. He turned to the camera. “Hi! Here I am! And I have with me what is now the most famous vampire in Great Britain! Sherlock, say hello.”

Sherlock sat down quietly across from Moriarty. Alright, he thought, whatever your game is, let it begin.

Moriarty oozed energy like a talk show host, dividing his attentions between Sherlock and the camera. “First let me say what an honor it is to have Sherlock Holmes with us today! So famous! This very moment every news channel in the country is playing footage of you, oh, over and over. Finally, a vampire humans can actually like, and isn’t that funny, because if they knew you personally, well… let’s just say we both know how cranky you can actually be, but never mind all that! You have arrived!”

Moriarty did Jazz Hands for Sherlock. “Fame! I’m gonna live forever…” he sang.

“What is it that you want?” Sherlock said, his chin buried in his scarf, his hands dug into his pockets. His full concentration was centered on Moriarty, which was the main reason he did not sense John entering the warehouse, gun in hand, and moving through the shadows in search of him.

The other reason was because John was utterly focused. And when John was focused, his mind was silent. He was once again the quiet man who had captured Sherlock’s attention on that boulevard all those nights ago.

“And speaking of fame, Sherlock, you’re welcome.” Moriarty told him with glee. “Oh, I should have been a Hollywood agent. Look what I’ve done for you. All these auditions I set up for you, and you showed up and performed admirably, Sherlock, really. Well done.” Moriarty gave Sherlock the slow clap.

“In fact,” he added, “you even did me one better. You did one thing, and only one thing, in the last 2 weeks that I didn’t arrange. You found your delicious little pet, Dr. Watson, and what a treasure he turned out to be! An adrenaline junkie to run at your side, be your assistant and fuck toy, let’s be honest… but even the blogging, just stellar! He really added something to your image.” Moriarty mused. “I made you famous, but John Watson made you … accessible! A vampire with a human sidekick, that is so cute.”

Moriarty sighed and looked seriously at the table for a moment. “I wish I had one of those. Keeping Sebastian in thrall requires so much blood I swear he’ll drain me before I do him.” Then he burst into maniacal laughter. “First World Problems!! Isn’t it rich!”

Sherlock grew impatient. “Let’s cut to the part where you tell me what you want.”

Moriarty smiled. “I want you to play a game with me, Sherlock Holmes. Play this one game and I will stop playing these silly duck-duck-noose games with Scotland Yard.”

Sherlock waited, staring at him. Moriarty reached into his pocket and withdrew two small plastic pillboxes in which were two white capsules. One in each box.

He sat them both on the table between them and gave a campy smile to the camera. “This is the moment we’ve been waiting for! In one of these containers is a pill made of a very special combination of accelerant, sulphur, and … guess?”

“Phosphorus.” Sherlock said, growing grim and leaning back in his chair, away from the pill.

Moriarty was exultant, “This is why I am such a fan! Yes! Phosphorus! And together they make a cocktail that…” he started chuckling, “that, I’m telling you,” more chuckles, like someone trying to tell a joke that is cracking him up before he can deliver the punchline. “I’m telling you, will make a vampire go up in flames, like, POOF!” He threw up his hands. “Oh, it’s like a Roman candle! I would say it’s painless but I can’t and be entirely honest, but I can promise you will go out in a blaze of glory. It’s incandescent!” He sighed with ecstasy at the thought. “The show trials have been… really spectacular.”

Moriarty looked down at the pills again. “The other pill is merely fattening. Now. This is how it’s going to work,” Moriarty pushed one pill toward Sherlock, and brought the other back in front himself. “You use those incredible—“ he looked at the camera, “really, incredible brains,” back at Sherlock, “to figure out… would I, knowing me as you do, and let’s face it, you have me figured out pretty well… would I put the poison pill in front of you, or wouldn’t I? Because Sherlock, you take one and I will take the other. Completely up to you!” He held his hands up again in a display of harmlessness. “Completely.”

Sherlock shook his head abruptly, “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I dozed off, WHAT is the point of this again?”

Moriarty leaned back and gestured toward the camera. “This? Oh, I’m sorry, this is a demonstration! For my buyer and let me tell you,” he lowered his voice to a friendly, confidential tone, “I think his hesitation is going to vanish when he sees what this little pill can do. When he sees you… or possibly me, but most likely you, scream and then burn up in the most startling 10 seconds imaginable, well, you can imagine.”

Sherlock glanced down at the pill, “Is your buyer human or vampire?”

“Excellent question, see, Sherlock, this is what I love about you. Most people would assume the buyer is a human eager to rid England of its vampires, but let’s face it, how do you get 10,000 vampires to take a pill, hm?” Moriarty gave another shrill laugh, “I mean, half of them wouldn’t take an aspirin when they were human.” He calmed himself again, “But a vampire almost always has another vampire they’d like gone, am I right? And my buyer is… political. I’m sure of it.”

“You don’t know?” Sherlock asked.

“Whoever he is, he’s not an idiot,” Moriarty said, perfectly serious for once. Now those big black eyes became intent. “So let’s get down to it. Which pill is it, Sherlock Holmes? You choose. If you are right, you’ll rid the world of a truly dreadful vampire! Me! And of course, you’ll have finally proven yourself superior to me because let’s face it, up till now you’ve been one step behind me every inch of the way.”

Sherlock looked at Moriarty, who gave him “sad face.”

“Suppose,” Sherlock said calmly, “that I tell you I have no interest in this foolishness, and I am certainly not going to risk burning myself up so that you’ll stop hanging random humans?”

“Suppose,” Moriarty returned, “the next human isn’t random?”

Sherlock grew very still.

“Where is your little human, anyway?” Moriarty whispered. Then he gave a look of mock surprise. “Oh, I bet I know! I bet he’s with my human right now! I bet… I just bet… My Sebastian has your John balanced on a block of ice right… this… minute.”

Sherlock didn’t respond.

“You know he followed us, right?” Moriarty smiled.

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment. Then he opened them and popped the top of the pillbox open. He removed the capsule and held it up to the light, studying it carefully. Moriarty opened his as well. They sat across from each other, each with a pill in their fingers.

“This is my favorite part.” Moriarty whispered.

John Watson stepped out of the shadows, his gun trained on Moriarty. “Sherlock, put it down,” he said.

Both vampires turned, and Moriarty’s face was delighted.

“Oh, this is better yet! John, is it? So nice to meet you, John! And I love the whole come-to-save-your-vampire-with-a-gun scenario, it’s so Wild West! But shooting me won’t kill me, John,” he explained patiently. “Killing a vampire is difficult, but since you’re here, you’ll get to see how it’s really done. Sebastian,” he called, and to his left John heard a rustle and a click. He didn’t take his gaze from Moriarty, but he could see the other man’s advance, and he certainly felt it when the other man’s gun touched his temple.

“I really wouldn’t move,” Moriarty advised him with a concerned look on his face. “Sebastian, don’t shoot just yet. John Watson dead is pretty fucking useless—no offense! But let’s do it this way,” Moriarty turned back to Sherlock. “On the count of five, if Sherlock doesn’t take his pill, Sebastian, then you shoot John Watson. One.”

_Sherlock, don’t._

Sherlock ignored him, staring at the pill in his fingers.

“Two.”

John risked a look at Sebastian Moran. Eyes completely blank. Utterly in thrall. Unable to make his own decisions.

“Three.”

John looked back at the two vampires, each with a pill hovering about their lips. Moriarty’s eyes glowed with mad triumph. No way was Sherlock’s pill anything but deadly.

“Four.”

GOODBYE, JOHN.

_Don’t!_

Sherlock put the pill to his lips, and John decided the only way to stop him was to shoot him. So John shot Sherlock. Right in the chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There really was a cargo steamer called the SS Baskerville in the 50s. Weird, huh? I didn't know it till I was writing this chapter. I was like... no way.


	14. Vamplock Ch 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is a BAMF. And Sherlock, fortunately, is still a vampire.

John shot Sherlock, and the force knocked him backward out of the chair and onto the floor. The pill went flying. Before Sherlock had even hit the floor, John brought up his left hand, knocking Sebastian Moran’s hand up away from his head. Then he shot Moran in the shoulder, and wrested the gun from him. He ran toward Sherlock but Moriarty was between them faster than thought, his huge black eyes wild with rage.

For a moment, John was sure he was dead. Then, incredibly, Moriarty smiled. It was a gruesome smile. “You can still be useful,” he whispered, and darted around John, scooping up Moran as if he were a doll, and disappearing into the depths of the warehouse. John didn’t even bother to look and see which way he went. He could hear the shouts of Lestrade and his team, and he wished he’d texted something more specific than RED CAR!! But there hadn’t been much time.

“In the back!” He shouted as loudly as he could, and then threw the chair out of the way and went to his knees beside Sherlock.

His vampire was lying in a pool of blood, his eyes closed, his face completely white, and… he really did look dead. John frantically pulled open the coat and then the shirt. The wound was a little knitted, as if vampire biology had made some headway before beginning to falter at the sheer loss of blood. John reached under Sherlock's arm with his right hand to his back, and felt a gaping exit wound. Okay, there's your problem, he thought. He fumbled to get his left hand under the wound and pinch it closed.

“Sherlock.” John cradled him and brought his right arm back up to push his forearm to Sherlock’s lips. “Come on, Sherlock. Come on.”

Nothing. Sherlock was unresponsive.

“Come on,” John whispered, giving Sherlock a jiggle and pressing harder. “Come on, come on.” He rotated his arm, driving the flesh into the fangs, though it was a difficult angle. The blood trickled out onto Sherlock’s tongue. John gritted his teeth and moved his arm on the fangs, widening the wounds. More blood went into the vampire’s mouth.

After a moment, the white lips moved against John’s arm, and he could see Sherlock swallow. Then the lips sealed and John rotated his arm once more, driving it against his fangs. Sherlock began to suck.

“Oh my God,” Lestrade and the others had found him. Lestrade knelt down next to him. “He’s lost a lot of blood. He’s going to drain you, John, he won’t be able to help himself.”

“No, he won’t,” John said calmly.

Lestrade was on the phone. “Just bring it down to the warehouse with the red car—“ he broke away from the phone. “Sally, is that ambulance still on the pier? Get it down here. That woman can sit in the back of it a few more minutes and we need the blood.”

Lestrade hunkered down beside John, watching in concern. Sherlock was latched on now, his eyes open but unfocused, and Lestrade couldn’t tell if he was really aware. John held his arm tight to Sherlock’s mouth for several more minutes, feeling the wound in the back with his fingers. Better. Finally, John balanced Sherlock's head against his own chest, pulled his left hand out from under him, and slid his bloody finger into the corner of Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock unlatched obediently, blinking dazedly, eyes still unfocused.

John checked the gunshot wound in the front. It was closing. “He needs a little more, is that ambulance coming?”

Lestrade rolled up his sleeve. “Yeah, in a minute. Okay, you look out for me, right?”

John nodded, wrapping his arms around his vampire, and Lestrade gingerly put his arm to Sherlock’s mouth. Then he inhaled sharply.

“Oh, whoa, wow… ow. Oh, shit. God damn. Okay. Wow! Wow, that feels really … Jesus.”

He looked up at John, who was watching Sherlock, but grinning. “Yeah, it’s quite a sensation,” he said.

Sally Donovan came running up, followed by a medic with three bags of blood and an IV.

“Here’s the—what the fuck are you doing?!” She said.

John slid his finger in and Lestrade detached himself gingerly. His face was a study. The medic came around and knelt at Sherlock’s side before realizing that his patient wouldn’t need the IV.

“No, but I do,” John said. His face was pale, but he looked peaceful. “Here, two for him, and one for me.”

Sally stood back and watched with horrified fascination. Then she looked over at Lestrade, who was inspecting his own arm in wonder.

“I hope you don’t expect me to do that,” she said bluntly.

Lestrade muttered, “You don’t know what you’re missing,” and rolled his sleeve down.

 

 

It was late at night by the time John and Sherlock came home. They both looked pale and tired. Lestrade asked them if they needed any help, but they declined, so he saw them both in, and drove away, thinking… well… a lot of things. One was that John and Sherlock had a very unusual bond.

I’M GOING TO SHOWER.

_Wait, let me take one more look--_

THEY'RE BOTH CLOSED, JOHN. IT’S FINE.

_Alright. I’m making tea._

They were both too drained to talk out loud.

John checked out his blog while the kettle heated and the shower ran. Yeah, fame. Wasn’t fame grand. As far as the general public was concerned, the story ended that morning with Sherlock’s dramatic rescue of the young mother. Pretty women always garnered the most attention.

Mycroft had made a rather spectral appearance at the hospital earlier, where John was getting more blood, and Sherlock was snarling at the staff that the best thing they could do for a vampire was keep their germs away from him.

“I’m guessing you know who his buyer was.” Sherlock said pointedly, slumped irritably on a plastic chair as he waited for John. Mycroft stood by him, propped on his umbrella. He had the grace to look conscious.

“I at least now have enough evidence to make him avoid England. Hopefully. Although I am certain his fascination for you is not going to fade.”

“How could he think making you watch your brother go up in flames would induce you to buy his ghastly little pills?” Sherlock huffed.

“I’ve wondered that myself,” Mycroft said quietly. “Either I was actually successful at concealing my identity from him – as he was from me – or there is some other game afoot. We will have to wait and see.”

Sherlock gave him a long look. “I do hope this wasn’t an elaborate plan to ensure that I have a career.”

Mycroft smiled slightly. Then he said, “Do not get too attached to Dr. Watson, my dear brother. He’ll be used against you again and again.”

Sherlock looked away. Mycroft finally sat down. “Victor was not your fault. You were very young. I know you never want to feel that grief again, but you cannot control fate.”

“This from you,” Sherlock breathed, and Mycroft gave a conceding tilt of the head.

“Perhaps we cannot help ourselves,” he commented, and then he said, “the best way to ensure his safety, of course—“

“He won’t want that.”

“He won’t want it, or you prefer to keep him as he is?”

“Both.”

Mycroft paused for a respectful moment, and then said, “But sooner or later you’ll have to make the choice. Make him one of us, or watch him grow old and die.”

Sherlock didn’t answer.

“Of course, either way you’ll lose him, in a sense.”

“Yes, thank you. Do stop.”

Mycroft fell silent. They both looked up as John came out, rolling down his sleeve.

_Ah, the Holmes brothers._

SHUT UP. LET’S GO.

 

 

Now they were home. Yes, home, John admitted, bringing two steaming cups into the living room and sitting (more like collapsing) on the couch. Sherlock eventually emerged from the shower and John heaved himself up off the couch to see if there was any hot water left for him.

_Tea._

EYES.

_You’re welcome._

YES, THANK YOU FOR THE TEA AND THE BULLET TO THE CHEST.

_Thank you for almost taking a poison pill for me._

WE’RE GETTING DISGUSTINGLY SAPPY. GO SHOWER. YOU SMELL LIKE A HOSPITAL.

John went in to hose off quickly under the bit of lukewarm water that remained.

When they were finally in bed, they lay on their backs side by side, not touching except for their hands, barely grazing one another. Sherlock was so full of blood he didn’t even fancy a taste at the moment. They were definitely too exhausted for sex, and there was not much to be discussed about their feelings. Not only did neither want to have such a discussion, it wasn’t really necessary. They were clearly stuck with each other.

_A week ago, I hated vampires so much I thought I’d rather die than be near one._

YES, I REMEMBER THE GLASS PHASE OF OUR RELATIONSHIP.

_Now I’ve shot a human to save a vampire._

YOU DIDN’T KILL HIM.

_No. Poor bastard, I probably should have. Better off dead._

HE MAY GET AWAY ONE DAY. HOW DID YOU KNOW HE WOULDN’T SHOOT YOU THE INSTANT YOU SHOT ME?

_He was a thrall. He had his orders, and he couldn’t operate independently. It gave me an extra second or two of wiggle room._

BUT IF YOU’D SHOT MORIARTY—

_He’d have shot me automatically. A thrall protects his vampire._

LIKE YOU DID IN THE ALLEY.

_Yes._

WAS THAT ALL THRALLDOM OR—

John rolled his head on the pillow to face Sherlock.

_Not entirely._

ORET THIN.

They both grinned.

“What were you thinking, by the way, with that pill almost in your mouth?” John said suddenly. “You didn’t really think you had a 50% chance of getting the harmless one, did you?”

Sherlock snorted. “No.” Then he said, “...I was thinking that this had been the best week of my life.”

John smiled softly, then rolled his head back and stared at the ceiling again. “It’s certainly been the most exciting week of mine,” he admitted.

TOMORROW YOU MUST UPDATE YOUR BLOG.

_God, that’s going to be quite a write-up._

BUT FIRST GO TO TESCO AND BUY HOT CHOCOLATE.

_What are you going to be doing, lying around like a pasha in your silk pajamas?_

I’VE BEEN SHOT, JOHN. I’M RECOVERING.

_Pf. I’ve been kidnapped, tied up, beaten, molested, drugged--_

YOU’RE TRYING TO PROVOKE ME INTO ANOTHER SESSION WITH THE RIDING CROP.

_My God, that was hot. Where did you learn how to do that?_

INTERNET PORN.

John giggled, then rubbed his face tiredly, and Sherlock rolled over and wrapped his arms and legs tightly around him, maneuvering him over on his side and rubbing his face in John’s hair.

“Get some sleep,” he said, burrowing in comfortably. Outside, the sky was clear, and Sherlock was glad of it. He didn’t want any more rain for a while.


End file.
